All is Fair in Love and War
by Emari-chan
Summary: A BBC Sherlock/John fanfiction. Moriarty is back, and everyone knows it. A tragedy strikes the Watson household. Dozens of little crimes pop up all over London. A Minister of Parliament vanishes. What does it all mean? And meanwhile, England's favorite flatmates are forced to re-evaluate the extent of their live-in relationship. Johnlock slash. Some John/Mary at the beginning.
1. Prologue

Hello, internet. This is my first Sherlock fanfic, so please do give me as much constructive criticism as humanely possible. Likewise, it's slash (imagine that). If John and Sherlock being in a relationship is a problem for you, you may not want to read this. On that note, I should further add that I intend this to be the darkest story I have written to date. Expect character death, torture, violence, sexual themes, and etcetera. Enjoy.

EDIT: I am removing the "SPOILERS FOR SEASON THREE" warning from the description at this time, because season three is now available on DVD, Netflix, and has been out for over six months. That being said, if you still haven't seen it (Why? What are you doing with your life?), be warned that this does contain some spoiler-ish material.

* * *

Prologue

**JIM MORIARTY**

It shouldn't have surprised anybody.

It did, of course. That was half the fun of it.

But it shouldn't have.

Who would believe that I, of all people, would throw my life away for the sake of a childish rivalry? Apparently all of London had. Even _he_ did, and he wasn't even ordinary. Pitiful.

Why would it shock anyone to learn that I had faked my own death when _he_ had done the same? Apparently, it makes more sense to fake your death by leaping from the top of a hospital than it does to blow your brains out. Obvious, really. Obvious and _boring_.

I don't _do_ boring. Hence the roof. Hence the gun. Hence_ not being dead_. Psych! No-one saw _that_ coming.

Not London.

Not Mycroft.

Not Mary.

Not Johnny-boy.

Not _him_.

Not The Virgin.

Not Sherlock Holmes.

I rubbed the bandages behind my ears. They bloody itched. The surgeon would make them not itch, if he knew what was good for him. Still, all things considered, it was a small price to pay for a continued mortal existence. Sherlock was stupid. If he'd been paying more attention to me and less to how to beat me, then he might've seen the telltale scars behind the lobule, even in spite of the makeup. He might've guessed the ruse - that it wasn't me at all.

It wasn't hard, finding someone to blow their head off for me. All you have to do is threaten their entire family, and suddenly you can have a whole line of people waiting to commit suicide for you. So much for sentiment.

A scalpel, a hairline cut, a cautious shifting of skin, of hair, of follicles. If you have the money, plastic surgery can make you a twin in two hours. One, if the surgeon is good. And he had to be good. I couldn't let just any street corner doctor wannabe swap my beautiful face out for an afternoon. I had to be good, too. It was hard, finding someone in England who was my stature, weight, and hair color with a loving wife and children that could be bumped off if compliance even looked like it might be an issue.

Harder still was finding someone who sounded like me. Oh, that was dull. Hours and hours of CCTV feed, audio enabled, waiting for that special someone. I found him, of course. In a world of nine billion people, statistics demands that there be someone genetically similar to you _somewhere_.

The rehearsal was _boring_. It was fun at first to watch him shake and cry, but it got so dull so quickly. It was important, though. I couldn't let Sherlock doubt the authenticity of the Moriarty in front of him for even a millisecond. So we practiced, he and I. I invented the most probable dialogue. I gave him a flesh-colored ear mike, invisible to the naked eye. I sat in one room, he in another, and relayed instructions. How to sit. What to say. Sometimes even when to blink.

I knew it was unimaginative, that I was repeating myself. But this time, there were no bombs. No semtex. Just two men on a roof, one of whom had a little voice buzzing in his ear.

The test run was the visit to Baker Street after the trial. It hadn't been hard to swap our places in prison the night before. It hadn't even been vaguely challenging. How Scotland Yard kept anybody at all under lock and key was a mystery. He didn't have to speak at the trial - that was the point. The jury gave the verdict - not guilty. Surprise, surprise.

I walked him out of the courthouse. I had him hail a cab. He entered 221B, paused on the stair when I told him to. The conversation with Sherlock went flawlessly. I'd predicted most of it ahead of time, of course. The bit with the apple was improvised, the minute my camera angle showed them sitting on the table, but he handled it perfectly. Funny how having one's entire life on the line can do that to a man.

And on the rooftop - perfect. A story well-told drawn to conclusion. My mimic spilled his brains all over the roof and Sherlock jumped. The balance of probability said that there were 16 ways the detective could have survived, if he were clever enough to think of them all. So then it became the Great Waiting Game. Two years passed, and I saw signs of my magnum opus, my global crime syndicate, falling to pieces. Not dead, then. Good.

Sherlock Holmes is not ordinary.

When my Twitter account started blowing up with #SherlockLives, I knew it was time to start watching. I watched, and I found an ally. Someone new, but not new.

Someone unexpected.

Someone in media.

I liked Magnussen. He knew how to play. He was creative. It was his proposal to have Johnny-boy kidnapped. Not the most original idea, I grant you, but crashing the kids' Bonfire Night party was a clever touch, and it sure was cute watching Sherlock pull his pet out from the flames.

Oh, that video. Mmm. There was artistry there. The panic in the detective's eyes as his poor dear heart burned - literally burned - was like listening to my own personal orchestra reach crescendo. If he would have known I was watching, I'm sure he could have appreciated the irony.

I wasn't sad to see Magnussen die.

He was clever.

He knew how to play.

And that was the problem, really. He was in too good a position to try and unseat me. Had Sherlock perished as I'd intended, then fighting the businessman would have been an acceptable distraction. As it was, I had bigger fish to fry, so I watched Sherlock pull the trigger and knew it was my turn.

There was a new game to play.

The stakes were higher.

The pawns were on the front lines, within shooting distance.

_Did you miss me?_

I knew he had.

_Did you miss me?_

He was nothing without me.

_Did you miss me?_

It would appear that I still owed Sherlock Holmes a fall.

And now, thanks to Magnussen, I knew exactly where to begin.

* * *

**JOHN WATSON**

It was a Thursday, just past mid-afternoon. John sighed, sweeping his eyes for the umpteenth time over the corpse sprawled on the floorboards. Obvious death by strangulation - _Even I could see as much_, he thought blithely - but what no-one could fathom was how the murderer had gotten into the room. Sherlock had not been interested initially, bored by the recent upswing in locked-room mysteries, but upon surveying the crime scene, he was forced to admit it was intriguing.

_A lone man, 45, overweight, presumable liver damage, walks into an abandoned manor house on the edge of London and locks all the doors and windows from the inside. There are no other apparent openings into the building; besides there being no skylights to speak of, the fireplace was walled in a few years ago. 48 hours later, the man is found dead by the groundskeeper, an elderly fellow with the only key to the house._

Lestrade had detained the groundskeeper on the premise that, self-admittedly, he was the only one with the key and ergo the only one who could have entered, killed the victim, and left, securing the door behind him. Sherlock, however, had dismissed that theory immediately upon seeing the suspect. The gardener was old, ailing, and though still wiry from years of yard work, certainly in no condition to asphyxiate a younger, if slightly obese, man.

Sherlock, having once interrogated the groundskeeper, who knew nothing of the affair and had seen no-one suspicious on or near the premises, turned to the crime scene itself. The old manor was deserted and had been for nearly two decades. The bank owned the property and the gardener's salary was paid by a contracted trust fund left by the deceased owner. The old man came in once a week to trim the grass and the shrubbery. Once upon a time, he had also touched up the paint, but age had taken his ability to climb a ladder, and so the white trim was flaking and the siding had definitely seen better days. It was, in John's opinion, altogether spooky.

Sherlock first went over every inch of the landscape, front and back. All the evidence suggested that no-one had approached the house but the victim in the last week, which corroborated the gardener's claim that he hadn't been in since the previous week's Tuesday. Sherlock announced that some workmen had passed by yesterday morning, judging by the imprint of the boots in the rain-softened gravel road, but that they too were free of suspicion as they had continued south away from the manor, and anyway, the murder had occurred two days prior, not one.

Inside the house, things were even more dilapidated than the exterior. There was an utter dearth of furniture - the DI's records showed that everything had been auctioned off after the last owner's funeral. The oak floor was molding and bowed with damp, and though there were fittings for the electric light, there were no bulbs in any of the light sockets.

The body lay face-down in the center of the living room, a thin, purpling bruise running around his neck like a mocking piece of jewelry.

"Suicide?" Lestrade suggested. The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched.

"Hardly. Observe - the bruising is more severe on the back of the neck. Had he strangled himself, the bruises would have been most noticeable on his front, unless you're telling me that he succeeded in reaching around his considerable girth and choked himself from behind. Besides, if he did this himself, then where's the weapon? No cord, no rope, no chain... Surely even you can see quite plainly that whoever did this was behind the victim."

"Yeah, alright, fair enough," Lestrade grumbled. "So how did they do it, then? The killer?"

The dark-haired detective frowned. "Give me a moment."

John and the detective inspector watched in silence from the doorway as Sherlock padded around the room's perimeter, taking note of everything - the length of the floorboards, the pattern of mold clinging to the plaster walls, the height of the useless chandelier off the floor - and though the doctor had seen him do it countless times on countless cases, he still could not fathom what conclusion the detective would draw from the scant evidence.

"John," Sherlock said eventually. "Remind me what we know about the victim."

Lestrade withdrew a Manila folder from his briefcase and handed it to the blonde man. He'd perused the contents this morning, but for those mere mortals without a mind palace, it was nice to have a reference sheet.

"Uh, George Rockwell," John read, "45 years old, and working as a tube driver for the last ten. He had a wife, Linda, and an eighth-year boy named -"

"Right, that'll do." Sherlock cut him off, not even bothering to look up from his examination of the deceased. "Rockwell was using his position as a tube driver to run a small smuggling operation - nothing major, probably fine jewelry forgeries, judging by his ring. You can see from the contents of his pockets that he was a gambler - a casino card, for starters, and a personalized die. A gambler, then, who forges jewelry. Likely put one of his pieces down as a wager and got himself in over his head when the fellow he played learned about the swappery."

"Brilliant." John had said it, and it was true. Sherlock put two and two together and didn't just get four - he got four and the life story of the guy who'd posed the equation.

"But that doesn't solve it, does it?" an exasperated detective inspector exclaimed. "How did the killer get in?"

"Simple," Sherlock replied, smacking his lips in satisfaction. "There is absolutely no way that the killer could have broken into the house after Rockwell was inside."

"Then why -"

"So he was here earlier?" John asked, cutting in. "The killer beat Rockwell to the house?"

"Exactly," Sherlock nodded. "They probably set up a meeting in advance to settle the issue - something like 'bring what you owe to the old Shadwell manor on Tuesday, or else'. The killer got to the house before Rockwell, and either let the victim barricade himself inside before he strangled him or locked everything up after he finished the job as a blind. He had a copy of the gardener's key with him to lock the door on his way out. And there it is. Arrest Matthew Saltzberg on the charge of hiring an assassin to solve his personal problems, and you'll have a case fitted."

Lestrade gaped at the detective. "Saltzberg? The director of the leading arts emporium in central London? And how could you possibly know the killer had another key? I swear you make these things up to infuriate the rest of us."

Sherlock groaned. "Yes, Gray, that Saltzberg."

"Greg."

"Whatever. He's the only frequenter of The Sportsman Casino with a good reason to accept a silver bracelet as a wager."

"A silver bracelet?"

"Obviously. As for the key -" Sherlock withdrew a gold key on a nylon cord from his coat pocket and tossed it to the detective inspector. "There's your key and your murder weapon. I found it in the tools shed. The assassin was trying to frame the gardener and dispose of his materials at the same time. The key is not the groundskeeper's - look at the metal, it's brand-new. And the weave of the cord matches the bruise pattern on the victim."

"So who's the assassin?" John asked, jotting down Sherlock's explanations on his phone's notepad app.

The detective shrugged. "It's a professional job. No identifying insignia. Could be any number of people. The only way to know for sure is to arrest Saltzberg."

"Right." Lestrade clapped his hands and nodded to the forensics team, who were waiting with varying degrees of patience outside. "That's that, then. Thanks for the help, Sherlock."

The taller man smirked. "What would you do without me, Lestrade?"

"Have fewer spontaneous inclinations to sock you one, for starters."

"Sherlock." John motioned to the detective. "Come on. I'll call a cab, yeah?"

He followed the doctor, but at the door turned back to the DI.

"Do let me know when you've got Saltzberg, would you? I've a few questions I need to see him answer."

...

Inside the cab at last, John leaned back into the black leather seat and exhaled slowly.

"That's the fifth mystery in as many days," he remarked, eyes closed. "You're doing a fair job keeping busy for a change."

"Mmm. It passes the time."

"You alright?"

"Mmm."

Tilting his head slightly, John could see his flat-mate staring pensively out the window.

"I mean, it's just that something so trivial doesn't usually appeal to you."

Sherlock turned to him then, a dark eyebrow arching.

"Are _you_ attempting to deduce something about _me_, Doctor?" He asked it with a hint of a smile, but John could hear the curiosity masked behind the question.

"You're worried," the doctor replied simply. He could see immediately from the way the detective's brow creased that it was true. Sherlock shifted back to the window, hiding his face from sight. When at last he spoke, his voice was quiet.

"Moriarty made a spectacle of his apparent come-back, but he hasn't been in touch. I keep thinking that perhaps these little crimes are somehow hints, clues into his next big scheme, but if they are, then I'm afraid I can't see his game. So yes, I am... concerned."

It was his choice of words that left John more apprehensive than anything else. Sherlock Holmes was not afraid of anything. The doctor did not reply, but spent the remainder of the return trip watching his companion out the corner of his eye. The cab dropped the detective off at 221B, Baker Street, and, as per the usual, John ended up paying the other man's fare. At his request, the cabbie then took the doctor home as well.

Number 5, Elvanston Street was a quiet, first floor apartment in Kensington, not far from Hyde Park. The Watsons went walking there sometimes when the sun had burned off the London fog. Mary herself came to greet her husband at the door, having seen the cab stop, and John kissed her briefly, tenderly.

"Afternoon, love," she said, drawing John into the small living room. "I wasn't expecting you to be home until late. Did Sherlock solve it quickly, then?"

John chuckled. "'Course he did. It barely took him half an hour to examine the grounds, and then five minutes looking at the body. We spent more time driving out there and back than we did actually at the crime scene."

"Bloody pleased with himself, too, I'd imagine," she laughed.

The doctor paused, frowning. Her words reminded him suddenly of the conversation in the taxi. "Pleased, certainly," John said slowly. "You know how he is. But he's worried, too. Moriarty has to be planning something, and Sherlock doesn't know what."

"Well, that'll drive him straight up the wall, won't it?" Mary said, still smiling, albeit more gently. "Not knowing? At least it'll keep him from getting bored. No more holes in the wall for Mrs. Hudson."

"True." John stretched, pulling off his overcoat and tossing it over the back of the settee. "Where's Sheryl?"

This time, Mary's smile turned mischievous. John loved to watch her; her face was so expressive. He felt sometimes that, no matter how mysterious her past, her life's story was written in her features to read if he cared to look hard enough. Was that how Sherlock felt all the time?

"Sheryl's upstairs," Mary replied. "She wouldn't stop crying, so I laid her in her crib and put in that CD of Sherlock playing the violin."

"Ahh." Once again, John too was smiling. Their daughter loved nothing better, it seemed, than to listen to her namesake's music.

"She's sleeping like a baby now."

"'Course." The doctor clapped his hands together. "Come on, love, let's do dinner tonight. We can go out, do something nice for a change."

"Or," Mary said, wrapping her arms around his waist and pulling him to her, "we could do dinner in. Light some candles, enjoy the atmosphere..."

Her lips closed over her husbands, a gesture which he appreciated fully, but which was interrupted by a soft whine from the bedroom.

"Ah, she'll be hungry again," Mary sighed.

"It's probably for the best," John answered gravely. "Snogging each other like a couple of teenagers is exactly how we ended up with her in the first place."

"Alright, alright," his wife giggled. "We'll do it your way and go out for dinner. But you get to carry the diaper bag tonight."

"Done and done," John said cheerfully. "Where shall we go?"

* * *

**SHERLOCK HOLMES**

_Where are you?_

Musty-damask-wallpaper-that-went-out-of-style-but-Mrs.-Hudson-likes-because-it-reminds-her-of-her-childhood backed cheap-computer-paper-John-bought-because-he's-having-financial-issues-but-is-too-embarrased-to-tell-me-about-it printed with water-soluble-black-and-white-inkjet-printer-ink. The pictures showed Jenny-a-homeless-girl-who-frequents-Trafalgar-Square-because-the-patrons-tend-to-be-generous, and Bruce-the-drugs-dealer-from-Wales-who-moved-here-to-escape-prosecution-after-a-gunfight, and a dozen other indicator-persons connected to one another by pins-and-red-linen-strings-of-webbing-tying-together-the-web-of-the-underworld.

Somewhere in that criminal web sat a spider. A resurrected spider. A spider with its web trashed, who even now would be spinning sticky threads of threats and bribes, trying to rebuild an immense network.

Moriarty.

A name that sent thrills of terror through most of London. A name that sent street rats bolting for secret safe houses. And now, it was everywhere. Echos of the word haunted every bar, every newspaper tabloid, every blogger's ramblings, though they grew progressively fainter as the weeks and the months passed by.

Why come back with such pomp and circumstance if you weren't going to act?

Why announce it at all?

Why wreck the element of surprise?

Why not call?

Why not text?

_Why?_

Moriarty.

The man terrified me.

Not because the consulting criminal was doubtlessly constructing my unpleasant demise. That was expected. Not because of how the man would use my own friends against me, like pawns on a chessboard. That was expected, too. That was the price of having friends.

Moriarty terrified me because I know exactly how close I myself am to belonging to that other extreme. When I stare at my map-web-plan-gameboard-thought-bubble-thinktank, I do not say to myself, "What would Moriarty do?". I say, "What would _I_ do?".

I am him. I know it. I know he knows it. I know he knows I know it.

But I do not want to be him.

I do not care about hurting people. I did once, but gave it up after realizing how pointless they all were.

I do not _like_ to hurt people, though. Or at least, that is what I try to convince myself of. Moriarty likes it, enjoys seeing people in danger, in pain. I don't. Although, I cannot deny that I relish the look of shocked loathing on Anderson's face when I remind him that I know he's having relations with Donovan. I cannot deny that my job isn't nearly so intense, so dramatic, so _fun_ when there's no lives on the line. And it's that tiny degree of pleasure that throws Doubt on everything else.

I do not like Doubt. I have made it a point to not to feel it. But Moriarty makes it impossible to ignore, the niggling, nagging, naughty Doubt that says "You would enjoy being the bad guy".

I don't care. That's another emotion I make it a point to ignore - caring.

John cares.

John chastises Donovan for calling me "freak" even though he knows it doesn't bother me. John chastises me for not caring enough about lives that are in danger. John wants me to be a hero. And I want to make John happy.

He is my friend.

I am not a hero.

But sometimes, being with him, I almost think about wanting to be one.

_There is an east wind coming._

I know Moriarty is planning something.

_There is an east wind coming._

I do not know his movements yet.

_There is an east wind coming._

But I will find out. And this time, I will put an end to our little game once and for all.


	2. Countdown

I suppose I didn't make my obligatory disclaimer in the last chapter, so no, I'm not Moffat publishing the script to season four on the internet. I also am not in any way associated with BBC, Arthur Conan Doyle, or other persons with a legal right to Sherlock Holmes. I can't even claim being British.

Moreover, I should probably clarify, in case it was unclear, that yes, this story does take place in the hole in my chest that is currently season four (yeah... 2016... whoo...). That's why we have season three spoiler-ish stuff - because it happens afterwards.

Finally, I'd like to thank everyone who's read this story so far, and the people I've gotten feedback from. If things seem OOC, please do let me know. I'm going to try and avoid writing from Sherlock's POV where possible, because even Doyle himself didn't do that. I think I will have to inevitably, so don't hate me. Without further ado...

* * *

Countdown

**MARY WATSON**  
**Monday**

Mary woke with a smile on her face, precisely 30 seconds before her alarm buzzed. Leaning over in bed, she woke her bleary-eyed husband with a peck on the cheek and gentle shove. She rolled off the mattress, dug through the pile of clothing on the floor for a clean pair of trousers, and headed for the bathroom.

"Save me some hot water," John mumbled, pulling a pillow across his face.

"Hurry up, and maybe you'll make it in time," his wife teased.

She was in a remarkably good mood, particularly for a Monday morning. It probably had something to do with the fact that Sheryl had slept through the night for the first time all month, and was helped along by the fact that, as she surveyed herself in the mirror, she noted that some of her pregnancy weight gain was at last melting off. John had been right - signing up for karate lessons had been a good idea. Technically, she was already a black belt, but John didn't know that, and the exercise was getting her back into shape.

At 7:05, there was nothing at all out of the ordinary in the "master" bath of the Watson household. There was a lot of white; the standard, utilitarian appliances mingled with white tile (the grout was yellowing slightly, but that too was by no means unusual), and the white walls, though in need of a fresh coat of paint, were precisely the same as they always were. The single sink sat centered in a cheap counter-top. It was altogether the picture of domestic mediocrity.

Mary's pyjama pants hit the floor. These were quickly followed by an overlarge tee-shirt and a zebra-print bra. A moment later, the shower was turned to its highest setting, and within seconds, the small room was beginning to fill with steam. Mrs. Watson murmured a few bars of a song - something by Adele, she was reasonably sure.

When the water turned off at 7:20, and a dripping hand reached for a fluffy towel, the woman peeking her head around the opaque shower curtain observed the bathroom in its entirety for the second time that morning. Everything was precisely as she had left it, except for a single detail. Though she had not heard the door open, and the tiny, frosted window was locked from the inside, there was now pasted to the mirror a pink Post-It note.

Curious, she padded to the sink, stepping lightly on the cold floor. The note could have come from her desk - she was quite sure she had sticky notes that color. On it was written, in a clear hand, a number five. Nothing more. Mary frowned.

"John...?" she called.

She did not receive a reply. Toweling off in a hurry, and momentarily stepping back into her nightclothes, Mary slipped out of the bath and peered around their sleeping quarters. John was gone, but on the bed was another pink note.

_SH texted me; gone out. Will shower tonight. I'll get the milk. - JW_

Well, that explained her husband's absence at least. Still regarding the note with the five quizzically, Mary set the piece of paper down on the bedside table and dressed herself. It wouldn't be long until a darling baby girl was looking for her breakfast, and in the meantime, the doctor's wife had a new high kick to practice.

**JOHN WATSON**

John buried his face under his pillow, feeling his phone buzz and in no mood to answer it. The offending cellular device buzzed again, however, and grumpily, John retrieved it.

_7:05 a.m._  
_Break-in at Astley Clarke. Come if convenient. - SH_

_7:06 a.m._  
_If inconvenient, come anyway. - SH_

The doctor rolled his eyes and dragged himself regretfully out of bed. Why couldn't London's criminal masses be more considerate of his sleep schedule? For that matter, why couldn't Sherlock?

John didn't even bother answering that last. Sherlock, he suspected, had already been up all night and had likely forgotten (or simply deleted) the fact that most humans require sleep for proper bodily function. Climbing into slacks and a jumper, John scrawled a note to Mary, dropped it on the pillow, and made his exit. The time on the alarm clock at this moment read "7:12".

He grabbed a sack lunch from the refrigerator, peeked in on Sheryl, who was cooing quietly in her sleep, and texted the consulting detective back as he stepped outside and hailed a cab.

_7:14 a.m._  
_Is it going to be dangerous? ;) - JW_

As a general rule, John did not care for the use of emoticons in text messages, as he found them rather banal means of communicating expression. He thought that Sherlock probably felt the same way, but he sent the winking face regardless, because if there was one place Mr. Holmes was deficient, it was in his comprehension of people's feelings, and without the additional clue, John wasn't sure Sherlock would recognize that the text was a joke.

_7:14 a.m._  
_I seriously doubt it. Nothing was actually stolen. And what on earth did you send me a semi-colon and an end-parenthesis for? - SH_

For the second time that morning, John Watson rolled his eyes. Apparently it was going to be one of _those_ Mondays.

The cab dropped the doctor just outside of the boutique. For a change, the site had not been barricaded off by Scotland Yard, so he did not have to answer any awkward questions about why he was strolling up to a crime scene, cool as you please. This, John surmised, was presumably linked to the fact that, according to Sherlock, nothing had been taken. But if there was no crime, he wondered, why were they there?

Sherlock met him at the small blue door.

"At last, a possible connection!" he exclaimed gleefully. "Do you see it?"

"Uh..." John thought back to last week's case. "The murder victim, Rockwell. He was a jewelry forger, wasn't he?"

"Precisely," the detective nodded sharply, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. "And now a break-in at one of London's many fine jewelry outlets."

"But you said nothing was taken," John said, following Sherlock as the man turned and strode down the aisle between displays.

"And today you were too tired when I texted you to brush your hair before leaving your flat," he replied without bothering to turn around. "Oh, I'm sorry. I thought we were listing things that were painfully obvious."

John flattened his hair self-consciously, hastening his step to keep up. At the end of the aisle, Sherlock tapped smartly on the door to the back room and a young, well-dressed woman, presumably an employee, opened it.

"Is this your friend?" she asked, eying the doctor coyly. "You didn't tell me he was cute."

"Very astute - I did not tell you that. I also did not tell you that he is married and finds the cut of your skirt unappealing even if it does complement the length of your legs. Show us the security footage. John hasn't seen it yet, and I could do with watching it again."

The significantly more flustered woman opened the door wider, introducing herself as Tiffany, and led the men into a room already containing Lestrade and Donovan, who, fortunately, refrained from making any snide comments about Sherlock's presence in the company of the store attendant.

"Morning, John," Lestrade greeted him amiably. "This is a weird one, make no mistake. Here, check this out."

The DI pulled a laptop to him and rewound the security footage. The time stamp placed it just after midnight the previous evening. It showed a single figure, masked, first carefully picking the lock on the side entrance and then punching in the code to turn off the alarms on the exterior security system.

"The controls are on the outside for safety purposes," Tiffany explained.

"Mmm, very safe," Sherlock muttered, "putting the 'off' switch on the outside where anyone could get at it. A real stroke of brilliance."

"Never mind that," John said quickly. "Why break in at all? What were they after?"

"'She'," Sherlock corrected. "Look at the height, the figure, the way she steps. Possibly someone very, very clever trying to fool us, but balance of probability says your cat burglar is a woman."

"So she breaks in," Lestrade narrated, pointing out the scene's particulars for the doctor's benefit, "passes by a dozen cases of jewelry worth hundreds of pounds a piece, passes the cash register as well, reaches the end of the aisle, just outside the door here, picks something up, and then leaves."

"You said that nothing was taken," Sherlock said, frowning in Tiffany's direction.

"Because it wasn't." The girl was obviously frustrated. "There's nothing on that table but a stack of business cards and a pot of flowers, and I was working the final shift last night - I'd have noticed if there was something unusual set over there."

"Was anyone else working with you?"

"Oh, just Marilyn," Tiffany laughed. "She's new. Scottish. Loves American music, and gossips something awful, let me tell you."

"A trait which clearly is in no way shared by any of her co-workers," Sherlock said under his breath. "When did she start working here?"

"About a month ago, now. She does clean-up, inventory, all that sort of thing. I spend most of my time out front with people. Her brother drops by sometimes - I don't like him. He smokes. Drinks, too, if I know him at all. But she adores him, of course."

"What about customers?" the detective mused. "Who came in here yesterday?"

"Oh, er..." The girl thought hard for a minute. "It was a pretty slow day... Let's see... We had a gentleman in around noon to pick up some new cufflinks - his sister's getting married next week, darling gentleman. And, uh, there was a woman in at 4:00 who browsed but didn't end up making a purchase, and... another woman, just before we closed. She got a pair of earrings; diamond set in 24 karats. A classic look, simply classic -"

"Yes, thank you," Sherlock interrupted. "Now, did any of the three of them go near the table?"

"The table?"

Sherlock's sigh conveyed in a single breath his utter disdain for those unable to follow his train of thought. "Yes, the table. The one, which, according to you, only holds flowers and business cards."

"Oh. Not really. Ah... Actually, come to think of it, the earrings were on display near to the table. I suppose it's possible that, when I unlocked the case, she could have gone over to it. Not that I'd like to speak ill of a paying customer," she added hastily.

"A fact she was probably counting on," murmured the detective.

"So you know what happened?" Donovan asked skeptically.

"Well, yes, of course we do."

"Sherlock..." The detective turned to John, who was regarding him with his arms crossed.

"Oh. Am I doing 'the look' again?"

"Yeah, uh-huh. How about taking us through it?" the doctor prompted.

"Right. A woman enters the shop and purchases a pair of earrings conveniently close to the back table. While Tiffany isn't looking, the woman turns, takes a business card, scrawls a message on the back, and replaces it on the pile. She would want to be sure that no-one else would take it by accident, so she came in just before closing. That night, another woman breaks in with help from your new girl, who could have gotten access to the security code from your boss' drawer while working here in the back. She takes the message and leaves. What we need now is to figure out what the note said..."

Spinning around, Sherlock went back into the main room, closely followed by the remainder of the team and located the table. It was a small mahogany piece, burdened by a hideous antique flower vase and a small stack of crisp, professional-looking cards.

"Pencil," Sherlock said shortly.

When he was handed one, he began to dust it over the top card, allowing the graphite to rub off ever so faintly.

"She would have been in a rush," the detective explained. "She'd have kept the card on the pile to expedite the process, and would have written quickly. Quickly usually means heavier-than-average pressure. If we're lucky, we should see - ah ha!"

The grey graphite had covered most of the card, but hadn't been ground into the faint grooves left by a woman's heavy writing on the sheet above. Thus, the message was distinctly visible in thin, white lines.

_GREEN._

"Green..." John repeated. "What's it -?"

"There's going to be a break-in," said Sherlock decisively.

"What?"

"When?"

A chorus of questions ran out. The doctor, either better acquainted with Sherlock's nebulous statements or more intimately familiar with the backwards plots of criminals, asked,

"Where?"

When Sherlock turned to him with a faint smile, John knew he'd picked the right question.

"Very good, John. The crime is not going to occur here. That much is plain. Had burglary of this establishment been the intent, why not do it last night instead of waiting until the police were surely going to have been alerted? No, this was the staging ground, nothing more. Tonight, there is a popular American band staying at the Camelot House just behind the Astley Clarke premises. They are particularly big amongst their Scottish followers. I'd say that this was the brother's idea - probably out looking for some easy cash, and doubtless he knows some pretty bad people, too, who wouldn't mind making a score. He's got himself a group, and the information on the band's schedule is all neatly provided by Miss Marilyn. She loves her brother - he could talk her into getting the security code, no problem. So there it is - set up in the neighboring jewelry store, send the signal card when everything is in place, and tonight, presumably at the same time, while the band is out performing, our little gang breaks into their hotel room and holds them up for cash when the members return."

By this point in time, everyone was staring at Sherlock like a school of goldfish.

"How does he work these things out?" Lestrade asked weakly.

"He's a freak, I told you," Donovan muttered quietly.

"Be ready at the Camelot House tonight, detective inspector, and you'll catch them in the act."

Ten minutes later, having sorted out the details of the evening's escapade, John and Sherlock were again waiting for a cab on the street corner.

"Not exactly the connection I was looking for, John," Sherlock said with a small grimace. "There has to be a pattern - there just has to be!"

"Maybe Moriarty isn't behind it," the doctor shrugged. "It doesn't all have to boil down to one of his little games."

"But I have to assume that it does," the detective argued. "Otherwise, I won't be able to stop him hurting someone again."

Sherlock did not actually say "hurting you again", but the words hung unspoken in the air between them anyway.

A cab pulled over, mercifully free of lunatic serial killers. John ate his lunch in the back seat, Sherlock stared out the window, and it was altogether a sombre party who stopped on Elvanston Street.

"This one wasn't so far away, was it?" John remarked. "I swear, Mary's gone to Astley Clarke before."

The frown on Sherlock's face deepened.

"Has she, at that?" he whispered to himself.

"What was that?" John asked, leaning back into the cab.

"Hmm? Oh, nothing."

The car stopped outside of John's flat; the blonde man climbed out the side before turning back and looking at Sherlock.

"Come to dinner with us?" the doctor invited.

"Thank you, no," Sherlock replied, a little cooler than necessary. "I'll not force myself on the happy couple. Enjoy your evening. Say 'hi' to Mary for me. Ta."

Without further ado, he pulled the side door closed and gave the cabbie his address, leaving John, puzzled, on the sidewalk.

Mary came out to meet him, holding a tiny blonde girl in her arms.

"Did you get the milk, love?"

John rubbed his temples.

"Damn. No, I forgot. Sorry."

"Don't worry, dear, I'll get it. Go drink a cup of tea. Oh, and John?"

"Hmm?"

"Did you leave a note in the bathroom this morning?"

"In the bathroom? No. I left it on the bed. Why?"

"No reason, dear. Go get your tea."

**MARY WATSON**  
**Tuesday**

It was Tuesday morning, 7:00, and Mrs. Watson was feeling less enthused about getting up. Sheryl had not been keen to continue sleeping for a straight eight-hour run, and had woken five different times after midnight. Still, Mary was nothing if not resilient, and after a moment of self-pity, the woman nudged her husband and headed for the shower.

"Joining me this morning?" she called over her shoulder. Only muffled groans issued from the bed in reply.

_I'll take that as a 'no'_, she smiled to herself.

Shower, scrub, shampoo, lather, rinse, repeat. Cucumber body wash was her favorite, but John preferred apple, so she reached for that instead. She could hear her husband cursing to himself as he attempted to find his phone, his keys, and his toothbrush, two of which were in the bathroom; oddly, the toothbrush was not one of those two.

She could hear his "Have a good day, love!" as he left for work, and his silly, nonsensical gurgling to the baby.

When the hot water ran out as it always did 15 minutes into her shower, Mary Watson stepped out of the bath and found herself confronted with another pink sticky note, again stuck to the center of the mirror.

Tuesday's message was a large number four; Mary could only assume her husband had stuck it there when he'd entered to get his keys.

"Men," she said irritably, ripping it off the mirror. Once she was dressed, she retrieved a displeased Sheryl from her bassinet and dropped the Post-It on the bedside table.

_Hold on..._ she frowned. Hadn't she set yesterday's note there as well? Where was it? Perhaps John had moved it the previous evening.

Sheryl started crying for real then, looking for her third breakfast that morning.

_Thank God for maternity leave_, Mary thought._ It's like feeding a Hobbit - small, and always hungry._

**JOHN WATSON**

Dr. Watson was looking forward to a quiet day at the clinic. Running around London with Sherlock Holmes prevented him going stir crazy, but it did not do much to pay the rent. Thankfully, the detective had not yet texted him, which indicated that he might actually get some work done for a change.

The office was quieter without Mary there. Sarah wouldn't give him the time of day, which he was fine with, and the other doctors were always polite, but not much in the way of conversation. It was just as well, really. For once, the blonde doctor was not bothered by the steady stream of flu shots alternating with folks possessing symptoms of a deeply unfortunate, somewhat compromising nature.

He'd prescribed dermatological hand cream, a trip to the ER, three booster shots, and a new sleep medication by the time he was through, and feeling very pleased with himself. Slipping into a light jacket, he was already reaching into his pocket to phone Mary when his cell buzzed of its own accord - a text message.

_6:04 p.m._  
_We've got another one. The London Library. Urgent - SH_

John sighed softly. At least the consulting detective had managed to wait until after hours to get a case. His fingers danced over the electronic keyboard as he punched out his reply.

_6:04 p.m. _  
_I'm on my way. - JW_

_6:05 p.m._  
_Mary, I won't be home for dinner. Don't wait up. - JW_

The London Library, located in St. James's Square, was the world's largest independent lending library, and one of the primary literary institutions in the UK. Founded in 1841, the building was open to all, upon the payment of an annual subscription, and the building's collections included everything from fine art to architecture to philosophy, religion, and travel. Today, it was cordoned off from the rest of the square by police tape and cars. Lestrade came to meet John's cab, looking worried.

"It's a murder," he said the minute John exited the cab. "Sherlock's examining the body on the third floor. Shot, by the look of things, and Sherlock seems to think it's Moriarty's MO. He panicked the moment he saw the room. Maybe you can talk some sense into him."

"That would be a first," John said quietly, to which Lestrade just laughed.

The detective inspector lead John through the ground floor to the lift, which took them up the TS Eliot house to the floor marked "M", housing books about art. The tall bookshelves stood in narrow rows and seemed to frame an old window spilling the light of the golden sunset across the metal grill floor. The curtains fluttered in the soft spring breeze.

The body was in front of the window: a young, blonde woman laying flat on her back, a dark bloodstain in the center of her chest. Sherlock Holmes was bent over her, examining her watch, but looked up when John walked in.

"Ah, finally," a pleased Sherlock said. "John, come here."

The doctor stepped gingerly on the floor but found that the metal did not so much as shift beneath his weight. Once beside the detective, he took more careful stock of the corpse.

"Female," he said, a trifle obviously. "Shot through the heart, by the look of it. A... very small caliber bullet..."

".338 millimeter -" the detective began.

"- Lapua Magnum," John finished with a small smile. "Recently popularized by the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq."

"Of course," Sherlock said quietly. Somehow, John did not get the feeling that the detective was referring to the bullet.

John completed his examination. "No other signs of violence, though the way our luck seems to run, an autopsy looking for poison might not be out of place. Is she staff? She's got a name tag... Emilia Roberts?"

"Mmm, she's staff," Sherlock nodded. "Shortsighted. Her glasses are in her hand. She was bent over and had taken them off to examine something below the window. When she stood up, she was shot. Our sniper was situated on the roof of one of the neighboring buildings and fired through the open window. There's no need to look for poison - Moriarty wouldn't bother with being so redundant."

"What makes you sure that this is Moriarty's hit?" John asked, frowning.

"Because I've seen this sniper's signature before. Ms. Roberts was shot by none other than Sebastian Moran, a notorious mercenary on Moriarty's employ. Everything about this resembles his work - the clean shot through the cracked window, a direct hit to the chest over a distance of at least 100 yards, the bullet size - nothing messy, quiet, and very professional. He even took into account the grilled flooring and shot her from a place where she'd fall on her back - less chance of blood dripping down to other floors and getting noticed. Brilliant."

"But what's the motive?"

Sherlock exhaled slightly. "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"John," Sherlock rolled his eyes, "as you so frequently attempt to remind me, I _am_ human. I'm not omnipotent. I make deductions based on factual observations. There is very little here to go on. She had a good relationship with her parents, no significant other to speak of, or children, but according to her co-workers she was happy and pleasant to be around. No apparent drunkenness, drug abuse, gambling, or other like vices. She was a touch OCD, but that's no reason to shoot a person - usually. Insofar as I can tell, there is absolutely nothing significant about the girl; she was a totally ordinary, successful librarian."

John was admittedly annoyed by the dismissiveness with which Sherlock treated the corpse, but he also recognized that if in fact Moriarty was behind this, there was no time to argue with the arrogant detective about the merits of compassion. Therefore, he bit his tongue and looked around the room.

"You said she was looking at something. What was she looking at?"

"I've already thought of that," the detective shook his head. "According to the body's current position, she was standing here -," Sherlock walked to a place directly in front of the window and crouched down, "- and was looking at this book display. There are no new pieces to be accounted for, nor any particularly old ones of significant value. Furthermore, I've already done a quick internet search - none of the pieces mentioned in any of these books are on display here in London, nor are they due for an exhibition any time soon."

John grimaced. There was one lead down. "Well... what was she doing here? I mean," he clarified, "obviously she works here, but why was she looking at these particular volumes?"

"That is the question, isn't it? There is no reason for her to not be here - the art room was part of her jurisdiction - but it does seem curious. How did Moran know where she was going to be? How soon did he know about the window's being open? And why was she here, looking around, when there were two carts full of books that required her attention?"

"Maybe she was feeling lazy," John suggested.

"Unlikely," Sherlock countered. "Her boss put her down as a hard worker, and don't forget the OCD - she would never leave a job unfinished."

"Yes, you mentioned the compulsiveness, but I don't see it."

"Oh, you see it, John, but you don't observe. Look at her hands - fingernails chewed, so a worrier, then, of nervous habits. The skin on her finger tips is rubbed red - a compulsive cleaner, but not a hypochondriac. One only has to look at the state of her shoes to see that. I had a look at her desk. The pens were arranged according to color, and the papers split up by subject in separate folders. Conclusion: she exhibited obsessive behavior about the appearance of her environment."

"Well..." John hazarded, "maybe she was cleaning. She bent over, and -"

"No, John," Sherlock interrupted. "Where are the cleaning supplies, then? No wipes, no duster -"

"Have you ever _been_ in a library?" John cut back in. "Half the work is in keeping the books themselves tidy. Maybe one was backwards on the shelf, or sitting on it out of place."

Sherlock stared at him; John would have sworn that there was something positively electric in that expression.

"It's possible," he said excitedly. "There are other potential explanations, but it's possible! We can take that as a working hypothesis. So someone enters the building, disturbs the books near the window, Moran gets into position... Ms. Roberts passes, notes the books out of place, which _would_ be relatively unusual in a library of this demographic, and is compelled to stop and fix them. She's dead the moment she stands. It seems to fit the facts."

"Except for one thing." Lestrade had been listening to this exchange with keen interest, but took that moment to step forward. "We know how she could have died, which is great, and we have the killer. But unless I've missed something, we still do not have a plausible motive."

"As usual, Lestrade, you have missed several 'somethings', but for once I do not believe any of them pertain to motive," Sherlock said. "There is no logical reason to shoot this particular librarian."

"So look for an illogical one, then," John put out. "Maybe... Moran shot the wrong person. Was there anyone else in the room?"

"Not supposedly," Lestrade sighed. "She was shot, according to forensics, around 5:00. People downstairs heard the echoes of the shot, but the body wasn't discovered by maintenance for another half hour."

"In any case, it's highly unlikely that Moran made a mistake," Sherlock added. "The gun required to make such a perfect shot over so long a distance would have had a very powerful scope on it; Moran knew exactly who he was shooting."

"Wouldn't Moriarty know you would recognize his assassin's work?" the doctor asked. "Maybe he just wants your attention."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he went to stand at the window, gazing across the London skyline.

"Now you're starting to sound like me," he said. "Lestrade, I'll give you the information I have on Moran, but I wouldn't expect to catch him, if I were you. He is good at what he does. I'm going to continue to investigate, and will let you know as soon as I find anything useful. John... thank you for coming. Your assistance is, as always, invaluable. It seems we've come across a stumbling block, however, so you may as well go home."

John stood and laid a hand tentatively on the detective's shoulder. Sherlock glanced up and looked at him, his surprise at being touched evident.

"Can I help?" the shorter man asked. "Do you need me to go somewhere? Look something up?"

"221B is out of milk," Sherlock said, a small smile turning his lips.

"I'm being serious, Sherlock," John reprimanded him. "If there's anything I can do, let me know."

"I will," the detective replied, turning back to stare out the window. John glanced over his shoulder at Lestrade, who was regarding the pair curiously. The doctor gave a small jerk of his head toward the door. Taking the hint, the DI slipped out to wait in the hallway.

"Sherlock," John said more forcefully. "Just promise me one thing. Promise me that whatever you find out you'll tell me, even if you can't trouble yourself to let Scotland Yard know. No going off after Moriarty on your own."

This time, Sherlock turned all the way around and looked at John seriously.

"You are worried."

"Mmm. Good deduction, that."

"Why?"

"Why am I _worried_?" John asked incredulously. "Oh, um, I don't know - maybe because the last time this happened, you jumped off the roof of a hospital and let me think you were dead for two years. I don't particularly care to spend another string of weeks contemplating the logistics of putting a bullet through my brain."

Sherlock blinked. He blinked again as his superhuman intelligence attempted to process that statement. An expression came over his face that said very clearly "processing failed"; most people would have termed it confusion, but then, Sherlock Holmes was not most people.

Eventually, he said only, "Yes, John. I promise. I will text you if I find anything."

"Thank you," John said. "Now, perhaps you can pay for my cab home for a change."

**MARY WATSON**  
**Wednesday**

Mrs. Watson was ready. She'd stepped into the shower about five minutes ago and had developed a plan for catching her mysterious sticky-note-depositor in the act. Her hair could forgo its daily drubbing for once - the Post-Its were beginning to get under her skin. Something was just... _off_ about them.

Stationing herself at the back of the tub, she positioned herself in a place where she could clearly see around the shower curtain while still remaining more or less obscured herself. Now all she had to do was wait... Or not.

With a disbelieving snort, Mary turned off the shower and stepped carefully onto the blue bathmat. A small pink piece of paper was already adhered to the glass, inscribed with a number three. The woman frowned. She had predicted this, but that did nothing to ease her concern as she stared down at the number.

Checking her watch, Mary noted that she was not mistaken; she had only stepped into the bathroom five minutes ago, and the note had most assuredly not been there before. Outside the bathroom door, she could hear John dragging himself out of bed. One hand on her hip, the other holding the paper, she walked back into their sleeping quarters.

When John looked up and found his wife staring at him, totally undressed and still dripping, his expression went from one of sleepy annoyance to one significantly more alert.

"Ah... Problem with the bath, love?" he asked.

"What," she asked, holding out the paper for him to see, "is this?"

"Uh..." John stepped closer, unsuccessfully trying to repress the blush spreading over his cheeks. "It looks like a number three. Why?"

Mary could practically hear him trying to work out why he was in trouble for a three and sighed internally. So he hadn't had anything to do with it, then. Still, just to make sure, she asked, "What about the note from yesterday, and the day before?"

John's expression turned even more confused. "What notes?"

"Other numbers," Mary replied vaguely. "I've been finding them on the bathroom mirror."

"That's... weird," John said. "Look, uh... I have to get to work, so do you mind if we skip over the foreplay this morning? I swear, I'll make it up to you later. All the espionage you want."

Mary let a smile she didn't feel cross her face. "'Course, love," she said gently. "Come here."

She pulled him to her and kissed him deeply as her husband ran his hand down the small of her back. Ten minutes later, John was off for work, and Mary was thinking breathlessly that she might need to finish that shower after all, hot water be buggered. In fact, a cold shower was almost certainly what the good doctor ordered.

In the excitement, the third note had fallen to the carpet. Mary picked it up and took it to the side table. This time, she was certain she was not going slowly crazy. Both the previous notes were gone. She deliberately set the pink paper down. Someone was repeatedly breaking into their flat and leaving cryptic notes.

Five... Four... Three... A countdown.

Mrs. Watson did not know what it was a countdown to, but she had the sneaking suspicion it was not going to be good.

In the bassinet, Sheryl started to cry. Mary picked her up carefully, cradling the darling baby to her. John was right, even if he didn't know it. Espionage could wait. There was a baby to look after.

And it seemed that espionage was content to wait.

They would wait.

They would wait for two more days.

After that, all bets were off.

**JOHN WATSON**

Dr. Watson had been sitting in his office for an hour when the text came.

_8:30 a.m._  
_Hostage crisis. Riverwood Secondary. - SH_

John very nearly fell out of his chair. Riverwood was a private school. There were children in danger.

_8:30 a.m._  
_Txt me details ASAP. - JW_

John was out of the office before the message finished sending.

_Thank God my hours are flexible_, he thought fleetingly as he punched out. On the sidewalk, John elbowed a man out of the way, shouting "police" and diving into the cab that the first man had been seconds from boarding. The doctor gave the address in the same breath and wrenched his mobile from his pocket as it buzzed with a reply.

_8:33 a.m._  
_Lone gunman holding kids for ransom. Hurry. - SH_

The fact that Sherlock had bothered to reply at all was enough to set John's pulse into overdrive, but the last sentence was an order which John immediately relayed to the cabbie. Mentally, John thanked the sixth sense that drove him to keep his handgun in his coat pocket at all times. Something about living with Sherlock Holmes for any period of time did that to a person.

The cabbie had to pull over at the entrance of the street; a line of police barricades had cordoned it off from the rest of traffic. John practically threw his fare at the driver and raced to where Lestrade was standing with Donovan, Anderson, and the others.

"John." Lestrade's face was paler than usual, and his often-cheerful countenance was creased in worry. "He texted you, then?"

"Yes. Where is he?" There was no question about to whom they were referring.

"The roof of that building." Lestrade pointed to an old brick structure abutting the small campus. "God knows how he got up there. But he seems to think he can break into the school without being noticed by the gunman. Meanwhile, we've got a negotiator here trying to talk to..."

Lestrade didn't bother finishing his sentence. No sooner had he told John where Sherlock was than the young doctor was off and running.

The building the detective inspector had indicated was a dilapidated old warehouse that had the look of an urban reclamation project abandoned half-way through. Bulldozers and forklifts stood rusting behind chain-link fence, while a crane sat unmoving, halfway through the task of lifting an I-beam. The whole area was littered with warnings about trespassing and the consequences thereof. Studiously ignoring these, John hopped the fence and skirted the machinery. A fire escape ran up the side of the warehouse; mercifully, John was tall enough to grab on to the retracting ladder if he stood on a crate.

By the time he reached the roof, the doctor was panting, his legs burning with exhaustion, but seeing Sherlock motioning him over caused some of the discomfort to dissipate.

"You took your time," the detective said mildly.

"Easy for you to say," John countered. "I swear I talked the cabbie into breaking a dozen traffic safety laws on the way here."

Sherlock snorted. "Ever seen_ me_ drive?"

"Never mind that. How are we getting in there?"

The detective squinted at the crane. "I've done all the necessary calculations. Accounting for the length of the chain and our relative velocity, I think we can run and jump onto the chain fast enough to swing most of the way to the roof of the school. At that point, we'll have to jump. We'll only have one chance at it, though - if we miss the first jump, the motion of the chain will decrease exponentially."

"Wait. What?" an astonished John asked.

"Just follow me," Sherlock said impatiently. "Jump when I jump. And a bit of friendly advice - don't miss."

Sherlock counted thirty paces back from the edge of the warehouse roof, standing such that he was in line with both the crane and the school building. Despite an infinite number of misgivings, John was standing next to him, silently questioning their sanity.

Without warning, Sherlock started running. John dashed after him. At their top speed, the edge of the roof was approaching far too fast.

"Don't... pause," Sherlock gasped through gritted teeth. "Maintain... kinetic... energy. _Jump!"_

One after the other, the men leaped from the edge. Sherlock caught the chain easily, having worked the mechanics out in his head, and slid down it to land on the I-beam even as it began to swing forward. John's catch was less graceful. He missed the chain entirely, catching Sherlock around the waist and clinging on for dear life.

As predicted, their combined momentum was enough to swing them out to the edge of the school roof. At the moment when the chain paused in midair, having reached its height and not yet succumbing to the downward pull of gravity, two things happened in unison: Sherlock spun himself backwards so that John fell off him onto the gravel roof, and the detective jumped off the metal bar.

Unable to see exactly where he was aiming, Sherlock missed the roof, scrabbling desperately instead at the edge. His fingers slipped, and he lost his grip. He'd resigned himself to falling off a building for real when John reached over and grabbed him by the wrist.

"Can't have you doing that, now can we?" the doctor grinned cheekily, ignoring the scrape across his temple and the bruises Sherlock could see already forming on his forearms. He hauled Sherlock onto the top of the school, and they lay there a moment, breathing heavily.

"That," Sherlock said dryly, "was not one of my best ideas."

"You think?"

The sound of a shot being fired sent a shock of adrenaline through John's system.

"Sherlock?" he hissed. "The kids!"

The detective forced himself to his feet, brushing the dust from his trenchcoat.

"There should be an access door up here somewhere. Help me find it."

The door, it turned out, was not particularly hard to find, nor was the lock difficult to pick, at least in Sherlock's skilled hands. They raced down the stairs, Sherlock flipping Lestrade's badge at a pair of terrified schoolmistresses.

"They're on the first floor, poor dears!" the first woman exclaimed.

"Did you hear the gunshot?" the other asked, eyes brimming with tears. "Oh God, I hope they're okay!"

Sherlock was already dragging John to the staircase.

"No time to bother with an elevator," he explained. "Could get stuck. The shooter could cut the power. Better to take the stairs."

John nodded and put on another burst of speed. Two flights of stairs flew past, and then they were on the ground floor. Sherlock put a finger to his lips, as if John had to be told that silence was key.

"We have to find him," Sherlock breathed, bending to John's ear. "If the opportunity presents itself, shoot to kill." John did not ask how Sherlock knew he had his gun with him; the doctor had had his hand on it for the last five minutes.

All at once, they heard a voice shout from a classroom down the hall. As one, the pair began to creep forward. There was a small scream, and John felt his stomach clench, but the gun was not fired again.

The corridor ended in a T-junction. With the school on lockdown, all the doors were shut and the lights turned off. Down the right passage, however, though all the doors remained closed, a single room had lights on. The men nodded to each other.

As they approached the door, they could hear heated voices as the gunman argued with the Yard's negotiator over the phone.

"Two million pounds and not a bill less, you hear me?" the man growled. "They're rich enough if they can afford this place."

There was a brief pause in which John and the detective reached the door. It was solid oak, but a glass panel set into the wall showed a sliver of the classroom - Algebra, to all appearances. The gunman was only just visible, the side of his bald head and stocky body barely able to seen from his position in the center of the room. The desks had been pushed as a barricade against the door, and the students were huddled in a terrified group against the far wall.

Sherlock wrenched John away from the glass before any of the young people could see them and give away their position.

"I can't shoot him from here," John hissed.

"Obviously," Sherlock replied. "You can't shoot him from there, either, at the moment, and seeing you will only cause the children to panic. We have to wait for him to move."

The gunman chose that moment to start arguing violently again.

"Good," Sherlock whispered.

"Good? How is that _good_?" John asked, as the one-sided conversation revealed that the children's families couldn't afford the £ two million ransom.

"Listen," Sherlock commanded, and reluctantly, John complied.

At first, he noticed nothing other than the sound of angry shouting, but soon he heard something else - pacing. Suddenly understanding what the detective was waiting for, John edged sidewise slowly until he could just peer through the window. The gunman was out of sight, but as he waited, the man's voice grew louder until he stormed angrily across John's line of vision.

The doctor drew his cocked Browning's and slid fully in front of the glass just as the man walked past again. Before he had the chance to see him, John took aim and fired.

There was a long silence. It occurred to John that he was clenching his eyes shut, and he slowly prized them open. There was a clean hole through the glass and the gunman's body stretched out on the floor. The two dozen students were staring at him, wide-eyed, unsure whether the doctor was there to rescue them or to add to their ordeal.

Shaking slightly, John dropped his arm and slid his gun back into his pocket. Pressing his face near the bullet hole, he said through the window, "It's alright. I'm with the police. You're safe."

Sherlock was already texting Lestrade when John looked down. A handful of the more adventurous secondary schoolers were nervously pulling the desks from the door, as if unsure whether they should be doing so. When enough of them were moved that the door could be opened, John strode in and took charge of the situation. He shepherded the children into a line away from the body and did his best to offer reassurances while Lestrade's team filed in.

The teacher proved the recipient of the earlier shot. Sherlock examined both the bodies while John helped distribute shock blankets to the students. In spite of everything, the odd sensation of déjà vu tugged a small, slightly hysterical smile from his face.

When the children had cleared the room and Anderson had been dispatched to help make phone calls to parents, Sherlock sat curled up on top of one of the desks, frowning at John and the detective inspector.

"Well?" Lestrade asked. "It's the second shooting in two days. Is it Moriarty, or isn't it?"

"Yesterday, I was certain it was," the consulting detective said quietly. "On the surface, this appears to be an utterly unrelated case. But you are right - it is coincidental. And you know how I feel about coincidences - the universe is rarely so lazy."

**Thursday**

Mary sat on the bed, staring at a number two written on a pink Post-It note. Slowly, she typed a short text into her mobile, not yet pressing "send". It would be ready when she needed it.

John fought fatigue from his office chair at the clinic. Last night's investigation had been exhausting on a multitude of levels. It was so strange to see Sherlock out of his depth, and concern was eating him alive.

Sherlock stood in place, staring at his wall, forgetting to eat, to sleep, and sometimes to breath. He was missing something. A piece of the puzzle that would link everything together. But what?

**JOHN WATSON**  
**Friday**

Sherlock sent him the message before it was yet light.

_5:17 a.m._  
_Report of new activity Shadwell Manor. Meet me. - SH_

The blonde man had slept poorly, and the vibration of his phone woke him immediately. Shadwell Manor. Of course - from the last week's case. John scribbled Mary a note and was out the door the moment he was dressed.

It was not hard to get a cab at 5:30 in the morning, and traffic was blessedly light. The sun was just rising as the black taxi car pulled to a stop at the end of the long drive marked "Shadwell". A moment later, a second cab stopped and Sherlock Holmes climbed out.

"Right on time, Doctor," he said, steel-grey eyes alight with the thrill of the chase. "Lestrade got a call this morning from one of the neighbors that someone was seen sneaking around here in the dark last night. He asked us to look around and see if there's anything to it or not."

"Do you think there is?" John asked, stifling a yawn.

"Could be," the detective answered, looking around eagerly. "This could be the connection I've been waiting for."

It did not take much searching to discover footprints in the dew-wet grass. John might have passed them by, but Sherlock pointed out the characteristic breaks in the verdigris, and soon they were following the narrow track around the back of the house. It stopped at the edge of the property, near to the neighboring manor house.

"This is where Lestrade's call came from," Sherlock said. He pointed at the ground. "Look at the tracks - they're all muddled. Our man milled around here for a while before going off that way. He was probably talking to someone on the phone, but what I can't fathom is why he would come here to do it. It's like..." The detective's eyes widened and he took off following the second track, which ended up looping back around to the house.

Chasing after him, John called, "It's like _what_? Sherlock? What is it -"

Sherlock stopped mid-stride, raising his hand to stop John also.

"It's like he _wanted_ to get caught," Sherlock said quietly. He pointed to the footprints, which disappeared into the abandoned Shadwell manor. "Why else would he cross a deserted property to make a loud phone call outside an inhabited house and then sneak back into the empty one?"

"Wanted to get caught?" John repeated. "But -"

"John, please suppress your inner desire to become a parrot and be silent a moment."

John took the cue to shut up, but continued to stare.

Cautiously, Sherlock pushed the back door open and followed the path of the intruder inside. Sherlock traced the faint pattern of wetness across the floorboards to the front room. It was exactly as it had been last Thursday, except sans Rockwell's body. With the absence of the corpse, there was the addition of a new curiosity. A single pink note was stuck to the wall concealing the old fireplace.

Sherlock followed the footprints out the front door, concluding that the intruder had done nothing more than enter and put up the note before he left. Doubling back, he and John stared together at the paper. It said one thing, and one thing only: _Oopsie._

"I've missed something," Sherlock said hollowly. "I've made a mistake."

"Sherlock..."

"Quiet, John. I'm thinking.

"But Sherlock, Mary -"

"Shush."

"Mary had a paper -"

"Shut up!"

Throwing up his hands in frustration, John walked back to the center of the living room, thinking hard. Eventually, Sherlock faced him.

"Call Lestrade. It would appear we have a situation."

**MARY WATSON**

Upon waking, Mary Watson did not head for her customary shower. Instead, she opened her phone and pressed the "send" option on her unsent text.

_7:00 a.m._  
_I have a favor to ask. Can you watch Sheryl today? - MW_

The reply was not long in coming, at which Mary smiled grimly.

_7:01 a.m._  
_Is something going on? - MH_

_7:01 a.m._  
_Not sure. Still, I'd rather be safe than sorry. - MW_

_7:02 a.m._  
_I suppose I owe you one for Sherlock. - MH_

_7:02 a.m._  
_For calling the ambulance or for shooting him? - MW_

_7:03 a.m._  
_..._  
_I suppose I owe you two. A car will be there in five. - MH_

Mary stood and retrieved the sleeping baby from her cradle. She knew she could count on Mycroft. Whatever happened today, their baby would have the best protection the British government could provide.

The black car arrived exactly on time, and Anthea herself stepped out, Mycroft's own personal lackey.

"Anthea," Mary said demurely. "I was not expecting the honor."

"Neither was I," Anthea replied, taking the baby from her mother. "Is there a situation I should be aware of?"

"I'm assuming by 'I', you mean Mycroft."

"Of course."

"I have reasons to be... concerned. I would be able to concentrate better if I knew that Sheryl was being looked after by the best of the best."

Anthea nodded slightly. "Mycroft has accorded the child a personal armament of MI6 bodyguards." Ever the discrete one, Anthea managed to not look like she thought this was totally overkill, though both women knew she was thinking it.

"Thank you," Mary said genuinely. "And tell Mycroft for me as well, please."

Anthea nodded and slid back into the car, holding Sheryl. Mary watched it disappear before turning back to face the flat. Ample time had passed. If someone meant her ill, they had had a perfect opportunity to break in and prepare themselves. The woman drew a silenced pistol from under her cardigan. She too had had time to prepare.

There was something wrong about having to break into one's own flat, but that was what it felt like as Mrs. Watson carefully examined every room for signs of an intruder.

_Living room - clean._

_Kitchen - clean._

_Dining room - clean_

_Water closet - clean_

_Laundry room - clean_

_Bedroom - clean._

That left only the bathroom, and somehow, Mary was not surprised. She nudged the door open with her foot and found herself staring at an empty room. For good measure, she checked behind the shower curtain, but as she'd expected, no-one was there.

Steeling herself, Mrs. Watson turned and faced the sink. There was a small box on the counter, and a single pink note on top of it.

_One_, the note said.

Mary opened the box. There was a mess of wires inside, and an LCD screen displaying the numbers 5:00. As soon as the lid came off, the numbers began to count backwards.

_4:59_

_4:58_

_4:57_

Semtex. Naturally.

Mary let out a shaky breath and set the box back on the counter. She had five minutes. She could run. Just as she thought this, a small bulb lit up red and began blinking.

... . ._.. ._.. _

Morse code.

_Hello._

"Hello," Mary said coldly. "Who are you?"

_ _ ._. .. ._ ._. _ _._

_Moriarty_. Naturally.

"May I have a minute?"

_._ _ .._ ... ._ ..._ . .._. .. ..._ .

_You have five._

_.. _ _. _ ._. .._ _.

_Don't run._

_ ... ._ _ ._ _ .._ ._.. _.. _... . _... _ ._. .. _. _.

_That would be boring._

Mary stepped into the bedroom and retrieved a pack of matches. Perhaps that was an unusual item for a new mother to carry in her purse, but then, Mary Watson was an unusual new mother. Lighting one, she held it up close to the bedroom smoke detector. A minute later, the alarm went off. She could hear people upstairs shouting in consternation. Good. Perhaps some of them would make it out alive.

Returning to the bathroom, Mary retrieved her phone and typed in her last text message.

_7:29 a.m._  
_John - don't go and be sad. I'm mad for you. At dinner, see Mycroft. Our dear Sheryl, bless her, is sleeping and safe. Moriarty is gone. Did you see it? Sherlock will be looking for safe. - I love you. - Mary Watson_

Mary watched the clock count down. When there was thirty seconds left on the clock, she sent it. Just enough time to be sure John got the message, and not enough time for her to have to see his reply.

_... _._ . _... _._ .

_Bye bye._

The clock reached zero. There was a noise so loud she couldn't hear it, and a light so bright she couldn't see it. And then there was nothing.

**JOHN WATSON**

Lestrade was talking to Sherlock, _arguing_ with Sherlock. The detective inspector could not see how he was supposed to remedy Sherlock's lapse in understanding, and Sherlock could not see what was so difficult about sending two dozen police cars out to scour the city of London for any sign of Moriarty or his undercover henchmen.

They had been at it for the last forty-five minutes. John was just grateful that Lestrade had not brought his team with - it was far too early to deal with Sally's insinuations about Sherlock's usefulness.

His phone buzzed. The number was Mary's. He read the text message once. He read it again.

"Sherlock?" If John's voice sounded an octave higher than normal, he chose to ignore it. Sherlock, on the other hand, took note of that fact, analyzed it, and came to the conclusion that something was very, very wrong.

"Yes, John?" he said, stepping away from the detective inspector. Lestrade followed close behind.

"Read this," John said, handing Sherlock his mobile. Sherlock read the message, and his eyes widened. "Does that mean anything to you?"

"This is from Mary?"

"Yes."

"It's nonsense,"" Lestrade said, reading it over Sherlock's shoulder. "Why would she send that?"

"It's not nonsense," Sherlock snapped, beginning to shake almost imperceptibly. "It's a skip code. Mary knows skip codes, remember? Every third word." He handed the phone back to John, who re-read the message with a sinking heart. The text now read:

_John - Don't be mad at Mycroft. Sheryl is safe. Moriarty did it. Be safe. - I love you. - Mary Watson_

At that moment, Lestrade's own mobile rang. He answered it hesitantly.

"Anderson?"

When he hung up a minute later, he too was shaking.

"There's... been an explosion," he announced. "In an apartment building on Elvanston Street."

* * *

Yup. I went there. Sorry. I guess my best justification is that Mary dies in book!canon too, and it is sort of integral to my quasi-plot. Finally, the Morse Code WAS formatted correctly, but FFN seems to have some kind of problem with having four periods or underscores next to each other, so now it's all jacked up. It bothers me from an "artistic integrity" point of view, so if you find yourself as annoyed as I am, it is correct on my Wattpad version of it.


	3. Elvanston Street

Sorry this has taken so long to update: my school has been performing Fiddler on the Roof this week and last, so I've been very busy with shows and rehearsals. I'd also wanted to have a friend review this for me before I posted it, but for the same reasons, that has not happened. Hopefully, then, this is alright and not OOC or awkwardly composed or what-have-you. Please do comment - your feedback reminds me that I have actual, carbon-based lifeforms reading this and inspires me to write faster.

* * *

Elvanston Street

Lestrade's statement was met with a deafening silence.

John sank slowly to his knees, feeling like the ground was falling away beneath him. Sherlock made some sort of exclamation; John could not tell what he had said through the thick fog descending over him.

It was like being underwater. Everything was blurred, and sounds seemed muffled.

Lestrade said something about shock, at which Sherlock tried to pull him back to his feet. John did not resist; he let himself be led from the floor of the manor to the veranda. How fresh air was supposed to ease his despair, he didn't know, but he decided to humor the detective inspector. Besides, there was something in Sherlock's expression that drove him to quiet compliance. The dark-haired genius rarely displayed concern for others, but the fraction of John's brain that had not ground to a screeching halt recognized the worry and self-loathing in Sherlock's features and responded accordingly.

"John."

A series of synapses fired, and the doctor registered that Sherlock was shaking him hesitantly by the shoulder. John turned slowly to face the detective, but his mind was miles away.

"John. I'm... I... I don't know what to say," Sherlock finished lamely, staring at the ground.

John opened his mouth. He closed it, then opened it again.

"I suppose that makes two of us," he said finally.

"John," repeated Sherlock, still staring at the ground, "I need you not to go into shock right now. I... was not exaggerating when I said I would be lost without my blogger. And if we -"

Lestrade approached the veranda. Apparently, he had gone down to his patrol car after seeing the doctor safely outside. John hadn't even noticed.

"Get in," he said, not unkindly. "I'll drive us over to Elvanston Street, shall I?"

Taking John again by the arm, Sherlock led him down the drive to where the police vehicle was parked by the gate. The whole way there, the detective looked as though he were fighting with himself. The little twitches, out-of-place blinks, subtle puckerings of his lips, would have been indistinguishable to the casual observer, but John, who knew him better than most, saw on that usually-expressionless face a veritable battleground of emotions, and for once, the doctor felt he could keep up with the detective's train of thought.

Sherlock did not want him to see his flat, or what was left of it, plain and simple. The detective knew, however, that John required closure, would not rest until he saw for himself what Moriarty had done. So when they reached the police car and Sherlock began to say something presumably awkward and well-intentioned but poorly worded, John stopped him.

"Sherlock. Shut up. I _need_ to see this."

The taller man blinked, his face sliding back into its typical mask of calm composure.

"That's... actually not at all what I was thinking about just now, John, but as you say, I'll not stop you."

The doctor tried for a disbelieving scoff, but suspected it was affected somewhat more with hysteria than he would have liked.

On any other day, John might have marveled at the novelty of sitting in a patrol car without wearing handcuffs; today, he leaned back in the plastic seat and took a deep breath, staring blankly at the scenery as it flashed past.

Elvanston Street was a mess of ambulances, police, and fire trucks. A swarm of curious bystanders were being ordered from the scene where, with a thrill of horror, John realized his flat used to be. When Lestrade stopped the car, the doctor stumbled out, Sherlock catching the door behind him. Donovan was on crowd control; seeing them approach, she cut an aisle through the gaggle of onlookers and let them through, for once in her life saying nothing at all. There was a line of sagging yellow tape stretched across the front of the ruined building. John stood before it on the charred remnants of his sidewalk and tried to take it in.

The bomb had blown a hole straight through the flat, blasting through walls and furniture and joists. Piles of rubble were all that remained of the once-homey place, and everything lay still and saturnine under a shroud of ash. With the ground floor largely decimated, the apartments above were beginning to sink and bow under their own weight. A team was working to erect a support to stop them collapsing altogether, while another was working to smother the electrical fires that sprung up where circuitry had melted.

John ducked hesitantly under the police tape, stepping gingerly on the blackened floor. He could sense Sherlock doing the same behind him, but his focus was all on the scene before him. It wasn't until he rubbed his face and his hand came away wet that he realized he was crying.

Picking a path through the desolate, almost alien, landscape, the blonde man worked his way back to the epicenter of the explosion, which he judged to be the bathroom. Here there was the greatest level of incineration, and it appeared that all the debris had burst in an outward radius from that point.

"Sherlock," John said softly. "Read it for me."

It wasn't as if it was particularly difficult to work out the details himself - the signs were still fresh, still clear, after all - but for some reason he needed to hear the detective say it.

Behind him, Sherlock drew a deep breath.

"Uh, well, the marks in the soot suggest that - that Mary stood here when the bomb went off. Probably Semtex; Moriarty's used it before - you'll remember that, of course. We can't say for sure until they run the tests for the airborne vapor tagging agent, but it's a common enough explosive for building demolition (it's also a tightly controlled substance, but that doesn't mean anything to a man of Moriarty's means), so that seems safe to hypothesize. This was your bathroom; obvious to anyone familiar with the standard layout of the rooms in this building, or to anyone who's been here before, as well as there being the telltale presence of melted shards of glass over there from the mirror. Ah, the ceramic chips on this side came from the toilet, and... the cast iron is from the bathtub. Um..."

"Sherlock," John said in the same quiet, flat tone of voice, "where is my wife's body?"

"John, I don't know that that's a good -"

"Just tell me, Sherlock."

The dark haired detective took another, shakier breath.

"Well, if she was standing here -" He stepped around John and planted his feet on the faint marks on the sooty floor he'd indicated earlier "- the blast appears to have been a particularly strong one - you have entire walls laid out here - but emanating from a small, concentrated area. Balance of probability suggests that she was facing the bomb when it went off, as she'd sent you a text, so she clearly understood what was coming. Relating the size of the blast radius and your wife's BMI, the explosion will have carried her -" He turned and pointed to a spot twenty-odd feet away, where a mass of rubble was piled, "- there."

John turned himself and began walking stoically toward the indicated pile.

"John," Sherlock insisted, catching him by the arm. "I really don't think you should see this."

"I'm a doctor, and a war veteran," John replied stonily. "I've seen people killed in explosions before."

"But this is your _wife_," the detective pressed. "It's _different_. There's a sentimental element that -"

"That you wouldn't know anything about." John wrenched his shoulder from Sherlock's grip. "I have to know that she's dead. I have to know that she's not going to come waltzing back into my life two years from now, cool as you please, like nothing is wrong. I have to know she's not coming back." His voice broke on the last word as Sherlock's eyes widened in comprehension; he had meant to hurt Sherlock, wanted him to feel some infinitesimal slice of his pain, but it only hurt all the more to see that he had succeeded.

Brushing brusquely past the stunned detective, John began tearing through shattered beams and crumbling drywall. He said nothing to stop Sherlock waving Lestrade over, only dug with a greater furor.

The first thing he uncovered was a hand. That alone brought him close to losing his nerve; the flesh was horribly burned, a scarlet-brown-black that was positively skeletal in appearance. It had been several years since he'd last had the misfortune to examine a mortar victim, and found he needed to re-steel himself against the sight. He had held that hand only last night, traced the faint pattern of blue veins under pale skin.

Breathing harder, John pushed more of the dross out of his way, revealing a mangled torso and an appendage that once had been a head. It was undoubtedly Mary.

Lestrade took that opportunity to approach cautiously.

"Er, John," he began, "if it's alright, we'll run some DNA tests and the like - make sure it's not... er... you know, another one of Moriarty's tricks..." He trailed off uncertainly.

"Run your tests if you like, Greg," John said softly. "But it's Mary. I know my wife when I see her."

And he could see her, could see her beautiful face reconstructed over that lurid corpse, knew how the plates of that skull were supposed to be fused together. His doctor's vision took it all in, analyzed it, and John found in that moment that he had absolutely no idea what to do.

He allowed Lestrade's team to move the body, remaining in place, kneeling and bent over the broken fragments of his life which had, only that morning, seemed so intriguing and full of promise.

"Sherlock," he said quietly, knowing full well that the detective was standing just behind him. "Why her?"

Sherlock shifted his weight uncomfortably. "How do you mean?"

"Why is she dead? Convince me that this isn't my fault. Tell me why Moriarty killed her, and not me. She wasn't even _involved_."

It was several minutes before the taller man spoke. When he did, his voice was cool and unaffected as ever.

"When I came back after my 'absence', you said you didn't care how I'd done it. Your question was _why_ I'd done it. I told you then that the why of it was harder to explain. This... This is why. I believed Moriarty was dead; to this day, I am not certain how he survived. But at the very least, I knew Moriarty had a powerful global network that had the potential to get to me if they knew that I lived, a network I was set and bound to unravel from the inside. So I did the only thing I could do - I disappeared. I could not even tell you that I was alright because you yourself had to be totally convinced by the deception, else you were in grave danger. You see? If you knew I was alive, if your mourning me was in any way contrived, Moriarty's people would have figured it out as well, and would have hurt you to get to me. Every day I worried that someone would discover my deception, that I would get a text from Mycroft saying you'd been kidnapped or shot. When at last I'd torn apart the roots of Moriarty's network, I returned to London, thinking it was safe, just in time to sort out that terrorist attack on parliament with you. You'd met Mary, were happy, and everything seemed calmer than it had in a long while. But then Moriarty came back. Apparently, he took a page out of Magnussen's book, using Mary against the both of us instead of you against me. So, what I am attempting to convey, however unsuccessfully, is that this is really _my_ fault. Not yours. And... I am sorry to have been the cause of your misfortune."

John lifted his head to stare at the detective, his eyes red and puffy with saltwater.

"I'm going to kill him," he said. "I am going to _kill him_. And no-one is going to stop me. Are we clear?"

"Crystal," Sherlock replied briskly. "Does that mean you're going to help me solve this 'final problem'? It is definitely going to be dangerous, at best."

"Moriarty can do his worst," John spat, grabbing Sherlock by the hand and pulling himself up. "I've not got a whole lot else to lose, have I? And what little I do have is in danger for as long as he's alive. So help me God, I'll see him buried six feet under if it kills me, too. And you are going to help me, Sherlock."

"Yes, John, I am."

They're conversation was interrupted by the conspicuous arrival of a sleek black car at the crime scene. Sherlock glared across the decimated landscape at the tall figure disembarking.

"Marvelous," he growled. "I was wondering when he was going to show up."

In a flash, John remembered Mary's text: _Don't be mad at_ _Mycroft_. What did he know about this? John was finding Mary's instructions rather hard to follow as he began to wonder if this was somehow preventable, if Mycroft could have stopped his wife dying. Now glaring as well, the doctor crossed his arms and contented himself to stare at the man picking his way through the ashes, occasionally knocking an inconvenient bit of debris to the side with the tip of an umbrella.

When Mycroft reached them, he retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket, dabbing daintily at his nose.

"The dust in here is simply _loathsome_," he grumbled. "It's playing havoc with my breathing."

"You're sure it's not the two pounds you've added to your middle since last I saw you?" Sherlock asked snidely.

The elder Holmes tutted. "Pound and a quarter, brother-mine," he corrected, replacing his handkerchief.

"Bathroom scales never provide wholly accurate readings, _brother-mine_. Two pounds."

Mycroft chose to ignore this, turning instead to John.

"Dr. Watson. So sorry to hear about this mess. Truly, a nasty business."

"What do you know about it?" John asked shortly. If there was one thing he had no patience for just then, it was Mycroft's little verbal games.

"Not much, I'm afraid," the politician sighed. "I received a text from your wife early this morning - interrupted my morning jog."

"You never jog in the morning," Sherlock interjected.

"- and she requested a favor," Mycroft finished doggedly. "She said she needed someone to look after the baby for a few hours. Didn't say why, and out of respect for her privacy, I didn't inquire any further."

"So much for discretion" John said bitterly, to which Mycroft snorted.

"My dear John, I assure you I hadn't the foggiest indication that Moriarty was planning to blow your flat to smithereens. You know Mary's background, or at least the gist of it; surely you can see why I assumed she had some personal business of a sensitive nature. I felt it imprudent to pry."

"So you're babysitting my daughter?" John asked, his eyes narrowing even further.

"Well, not me personally," Mycroft clarified with a small shrug. "MI6 is looking after her."

"Using her for target practice, more likely," Sherlock said under his breath.

"Oh please, Sherlock, don't be melodramatic. England does need her blunt instruments, even if they lack your... subtlety. Sheryl is perfectly safe."

"Where is she?" asked John.

"I'm afraid I cannot disclose her location at present; too much danger of someone listening in. Why don't you drop by the Diogenes Club tomorrow and we'll chat. I've a case I need Sherlock to look at, anyway."

"Related?" the detective asked.

"Possibly. There's no evidence to suggest a connection so far, but one never knows with Moriarty. Shall we say 10:00 tomorrow morning?"

John nodded. "We'll be there."

"And exactly where are you staying tonight?" Mycroft asked keenly. "You can't hardly sleep here, now can you?"

"He's coming back to 221B," Sherlock said immediately.

"Am I?" John asked in surprise. It was true, he needed lodgings for the evening, but he wasn't sure yet whether he was angry with Sherlock or not, and did not know that he wanted to spend a night in the same flat.

"Aren't you?" the detective asked with a frown. "My brother, insufferable as he is, is quite correct; you can hardly spend the night in this place."

"Yeah, funnily enough, I'd figured that out," John snapped. "But I can room in a hotel for the night."

Sherlock shook his head. "Save what you've got in the bank. We'll need it later if we're going to see Moriarty to the fate he deserves."

"But I -"

John stopped mid-sentence. What was the point of arguing with him? He'd only end up out-logiced and agreeable anyway. Sighing, John threw his hands up.

"Alright. I'll go back to Baker Street."

"Good," Sherlock said, as if that settled matters. "Come, Mycroft, and give us a lift."

Driving to the flat of the younger Holmes cemented some of the situation's reality in John's heart. He was returning to 221B for an indeterminate length of time. Mary was gone. His flat was gone. Sheryl was... elsewhere, but at least she was safe. John chuckled faintly to himself, wondering if Sherlock would mind sharing the flat with a baby. The answer was almost certainly "yes".

Mycroft did not see them to the door. Rather, he nodded a cordial, politely sympathetic goodbye, and motioned to his chauffeur to walk Sherlock and the doctor inside.

Mrs. Hudson rushed to meet Sherlock at the door, exclaiming in pleasant surprise when she saw John was with him.

"Oh, John dear, I haven't seen you in -"

"Now is an unideal time, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock interrupted.

John murmured hello and began climbing up the stairs, pretending that he did not notice the very slight limp catching his foot on the steps. Below him, he could hear Sherlock explaining the morning's events to their landlady, and Mrs. Hudson's own cry of shock and horror.

Sherlock was not one for casual visitors, and both men had been so busy of late that it had been nigh on six months since the doctor had set foot in the Baker Street apartment building, but the dingy walls were the same green-grey he remembered. Apartment B opened to his touch, and John felt a bizarre pang of nostalgia and affection sweep over him as he surveyed the unkempt living room, his own reddish armchair across from the detective's, and the fireplace submerged under the trappings of some new experiment. There was a new scorch mark in the center of the kitchen table, and it seemed that Sherlock had taken to having Mrs. Hudson dust even less frequently than usual, but otherwise, the small apartment too was unchanged.

With what felt like his hundredth sigh of that day, John sank into his chair, grabbing the Union Jack pillow and burying his face in it. Everything was wrong. He was passed shock, passed tears, so this was... what? Numbness? Denial? Doubtless, his therapist would have a thoroughly unhelpful label for it. He could hear the door creak as Sherlock opened it, perceived his removing his long coat and hanging it on the wall. John did not look behind him as Sherlock strode into the kitchen, nor did the detective make any attempt at conversation.

John did look up, however, when he heard the clink of a glass on the table next to him. There was a green mug of steaming tea resting on the old wood, and Sherlock was in the midst of raising a similar glass to his lips. He saw John looking, and something softened at the edges of hard grey eyes.

"Black with no sugar, am I right?" he asked, turning to face out the curtained window.

"You remembered." John lifted the mug, cradling the hot ceramic vessel in his hands. "I thought you would have deleted it."

Sherlock shrugged his narrow shoulders.

"After the Baskerville case, it seemed like prudent information."

John glanced suspiciously at his tea.

"This isn't drugged, is it?"

Sherlock chuckled. "No. Not unless you're counting the natural caffein content of tea leaves a drug. There are some pills on the counter, though, if you'd like to sleep."

John raised his eyebrows. "You're being awfully considerate."

"It is possible for me to be, you know," the raven haired man replied, drawing his violin case from under a stack of newspapers. "Most people just aren't worth the trouble."

John sipped his tea, sensing a warmth he hadn't felt all day unfurl in his chest. Sherlock Holmes was a dick, granted, but he certainly hadn't had to offer John a place to spend the night, and his making tea without being threatened at gunpoint was practically unprecedented. As Sherlock began playing (Debussy's _Reverie_, unless he was mistaken), John felt himself beginning to nod off.

A pillow hit him in the face. Startled, he sat upright, finding Sherlock staring at him amusedly.

"You would have regretted falling asleep like that," he said. "Bad for your neck. Could get a cramp."

"I wasn't sleeping," John said irritably.

"Slower breathing. Pulse decreasing. Eyes closed for an extended period of time. You were dozing. Go up to bed. I'll stay down here and play for a while."

Too fatigued to put up a fight, John dragged himself down the hall and collapsed in his old bed, ignoring the cloud of dust that rose from the disused sheets. Below him, Sherlock picked up where he had left off, letting the melancholy notes roll off his Stradivarius.

The doctor was in mourning and he had been up since dawn. Sleep was not long in taking him, even as mid-morning daylight poured through the window.

...

When he woke, the bedroom was no longer bright.

When he woke, he was screaming.

It took John a moment to realize that it was his voice letting off that horrible din, and once he did, the scream was slow to die, not eager to be cut off and repressed inside. John could hear feet in the hall; Sherlock had surely heard him cry out and was coming to see what was the matter. The doctor couldn't bring himself to care.

Nightmare-images were still flickering at the edges of his vision.

_Men with guns. A desert wasteland, still hot under the glow of the young moon._

_Red sand. Sand and blood. Explosions. Gunfire. Men screaming. Men falling._

_Memories - but not memories, because now the soldiers had the wrong faces, and it was Sherlock lying dead in the sand, and Moriarty pointing the gun, and Mary was - Mary was -_

John let out a choked sob only to discover, much to his discomfiture, that Sherlock was perched on the edge of the bed's foot, staring at him with the intensity he generally reserved for particularly tricky problems.

"You were dreaming," Sherlock said. It was not a question.

Silently, wiping his face on the eiderdown, John nodded.

"A nightmare," the detective continued.

John nodded again.

"You haven't had one in a while, and this dream was particularly intense."

"Is there any point," John began, half-laughing through his distress into the sweat-stained fabric, "in asking how you know that?"

Sherlock cocked his head slightly. "It was more an estimation than my usual. You had nightmares the first two weeks or so after moving in with me for the first time. Then they faded. They started again after the incident at the pool. Fear-induced, then, and only by highly charged situations. Playing the violin seemed to help eliminate them, and it wasn't long before you slept through the night again. Your time with your wife worked wonders for your sleeping habits - the circles under your eyes had disappeared entirely after a month with her, even when you and I worked night cases. I could only conclude that yesterday's events caused the dreams to reemerge, and though I was playing the whole time, you still woke in a state of agitation. Thus, it must have been worse than usual."

"You really are brilliant, you know that?" John asked shaking his head.

"Yes, I know," Sherlock smiled. "But then, so are you. It's not every man who'll move back in with someone who indirectly caused his wife's murder."

John laughed mirthlessly. "It's also not every man who takes another under his roof when said person is at risk of going the same way as his wife. You do realize that for as long as I'm under your roof, this place is at risk of blowing up, too? Moriarty's bound to come after me next."

"Yes, he is," Sherlock said frankly. "Which is why it's all the more vital that you stay with me. Moriarty doesn't want me dead yet - he wants me to suffer in my guilt awhile, first. He won't plant a bomb in 221B when there's a danger of my being killed prematurely."

"Lovely," John groaned, leaning back against the headboard. "Now we really will have to be inseparable. People are bound to talk."

"People already talk," Sherlock said dismissively. "And if they can't understand your wanting to be nearer your friends after your loss, then they aren't worth your time."

"You got that from a book."

"Where else?"

The doctor leaned over, squinting at the red numbers on the digital alarm.

"What time is it?"

"2:34 in the morning. Go back to sleep. I'll play violin for a while yet; I'm composing."

Sherlock stood to leave, but when John hesitantly held up his hand, the detective stopped in his tracks.

"Yes?"

How he knew John was motioning him to wait was as irrelevant as it was immaterial.

"Would you... sit in here to play?" the blonde man requested. "I think I might sleep better."

For a moment, Sherlock said nothing, and John was afraid he might refuse. But then the taller man nodded shortly and said, "This is a sentimental thing, correct? Human presence as a basis for comfort?"

"Yes."

"Then of course. Let me just get my case."

John sat in bed, irrationally fearful that the last certainty in his life would disappear on its brief journey to the living room. Sherlock returned momentarily, however, and stood himself next to John's dresser. The detective set his bow against the strings of his violin, looking to John for a cue as to what exactly he was supposed to be doing.

The doctor laid back down against the pillows, drawing the comforter close to his chin. He felt uncommonly vulnerable, but then, who wouldn't, after the sort of day he had had?

"What shall I play?" Sherlock asked, his features glowing white in the faint moonlight.

"Anything's fine," John mumbled. A few bars of music floated across the bedroom. Frowning, the blonde man asked, "Is that Lady Gaga?"

Sherlock chuckled softly. "Haven't the foggiest. Lestrade had it playing on the radio this morning. I was just wondering if you'd notice."

Switching tunes, he began to play Stravinsky's _Firebird Suite_. John blinked heavily, falling at last into a dreamless sleep, holding nightmares at bay until morning's light.


	4. Unusual Requests

Sorry about the length of my update time, yada yada yada, insert excuse here, all that jazz. Just a note: there's actual slashiness in this part! Yay! It didn't take me 10 chapters this time! Let me know what you think, please.

* * *

Unusual Requests

**JOHN WATSON**

When John got out of the shower, it was nearing 9:00. He found Sherlock standing in the living room, staring intently at the photographs pinned to the wall as if he could set them on fire just by looking hard enough. The doctor would not have been surprised if the incorrigible detective once had conducted an experiment precisely to test the feasibility of doing so.

Sherlock still wore his clothes from the day before, and between his unkempt curls and the fact that his violin lay abandoned on the mantelpiece rather than back in its case, the evidence suggested that the man had gotten no sleep whatsoever.

He did not look up when John walked in, but said, "Phone."

"Where is it?" John sighed. How the detective had survived without him there to answer his every beck and call was beyond his comprehension.

"Table."

Sure enough, the small mobile sat discarded on the side table next to a used nicotine patch. The doctor retrieved the desired device, but frowned at the reminder of his friend's addiction.

"Exactly how many of those have you gone through this morning?" he asked, placing the mobile in the detective's hand.

It did not take a person of Sherlock Holmes' intelligence to work out what he was referring to.

"Four," Sherlock replied, opening his camera app and flipping through his photos, the lines in his face deepening as he did so.

"Four?" John spluttered.

"It's a four patch problem," the detective said, holding his phone, now displaying a photograph of the dead librarian, up to the rest of his collage.

"What is?"

"This." Sherlock gestured at the wall. "Moriarty loves riddles. He is telling us something with the crimes this past week. The jewelry store. The library. The school. The manor. But what is the connection?"

"Haven't the foggiest," John said. "Aren't we meeting Mycroft this morning?"

The doctor had been expecting a grunt in reply, if anything, but Sherlock actually turned to him, a fanatic light glinting in his eyes.

"Yes," he said. "And we'll hear what Mycroft has to say. Perhaps this case of his will prove to be the missing link I need. Eat your breakfast, and then we can go."

"You're eating, too," John said, heading for the kitchen.

"I am not," the detective huffed, as if the very notion were absurd.

"I'm not running around London with you when you haven't eaten, especially since you haven't slept yet, either," John informed him irritably, pulling the eggs out of the refrigerator (thankfully free of severed heads). He also retrieved a skillet from the cabinet, and set about scrambling a couple of the eggs.

"How do you know I haven't slept?" Sherlock asked, dropping into a kitchen chair and watching the doctor cook.

"Please, Sherlock, I'm not _that_ oblivious," John grimaced. He turned the heat off the eggs, dropped a pair of bread slices into the toaster, and brushed his hands off on his slacks, leaning against the oven to frown at his old flatmate.

"Well, go on then," Sherlock prompted. "Tell me how you figured it out."

"You're you. You already know how I figured it out."

"I know how _I_ would have figured it out, but your mind works differently." Sherlock sat up a little straighter at the table, pressing his finger tips together. "What clued you in?"

Scooping eggs on to toast and setting a plate in front of the detective, John took the other seat at the table and dug into his own breakfast. "I'll tell you," he said between bites, "but only if you eat."

Sherlock lifted his toast disdainfully. "But... really John? Eggs on toast? Could you possibly be more mundane?"

John shrugged. "Mundane is good. It's nice to have a little mundaneness in between your house blowing up and chasing serial killers. Too much adrenaline is bad for the heart. Now eat."

"Eggs are also bad for the heart," Sherlock pointed out. "All that cholesterol can really -"

"Shut up and eat."

The detective took a reluctant bite of toast, trying his utmost to pout and chew simultaneously.

"Well?" he asked impetuously when the food was half-gone.

John glanced meaningfully at what was left of the detective's toast, wiping his lips on his napkin.

"You must have already been up late playing if you heard me wake up at 2:30 in the morning," he said. "Your hair is a mess, and you always comb it when you get up. You never bothered putting your violin away, and on top of it all, you have a problem to be solving. It wasn't very difficult to figure out."

"But my eyes aren't bloodshot," Sherlock argued. "I do not appear fatigued. Maybe I just forgot to brush my hair this morning."

"As if," John snorted. "You're quite vain about your appearance."

"I am not," the detective said petulantly, crossing his arms.

"You are."

"I'm sure you think that was quite clever of you."

John grunted a non-answer.

"Come on, John. We'll be late for our appointment with my brother," Sherlock said, jumping up from his place.

"Is the great Sherlock Holmes conceding defeat?" John asked with mock astonishment.

"You've already decreased my mental faculty by forcing me to eat on a case," the other man sniffed. "I'll not expend any more of my energy proving myself correct."

"Well, I suppose there's a first time for everything," John muttered, clearing the plates.

"Come _on_, John!" Sherlock repeated, donning his coat in the living room. "The game is on!"

"Some game," the doctor murmured heaven-wards.

...

Mycroft was reclining in a black leather chair when they arrived, perusing the newspaper. He barely spared the pair a glance when they ducked inside the small private room, simply waving them to the two significantly less-plush chairs set aside for visitors to the Diogenes.

"Rough night, doctor?" the elder Holmes asked, flipping a page. John did not grace the query with a reply, rolling his eyes and taking the seat next to Sherlock.

"You wanted to talk," the blonde man said curtly. "So talk."

"Mmm, a sleeping disorder and a hostile attitude," Mycroft commented, his eyes still fixed on his paper. "What a winning combination."

"Just as well, then, that I don't particularly care what you think of me," John parried, crossing his legs.

"You should care," the politician said, folding his paper and setting it to the side. "I have the power to make life very difficult for you."

"As entertaining as this verbal sparring match is," Sherlock cut in, "I was under the impression that we were here on business."

"Too true," Mycroft sighed. "We've had a bit of an... incident."

"Brilliant," Sherlock groaned, massaging his temples. "Which piece of top-secret, priority information has gone missing this time? The non-aggression treaty with Russia? The reports on domestic terrorism?"

"Neither, actually," Mycroft said, his voice like ice. "I think even you haven't heard of this one."

"Go on." Sherlock sounded bored, but John could see the spark of interest lurking in his eyes, and it seemed that Mycroft could, too, because he gave a small, satisfied smile.

"There is a... faction within the British government that has been proving, shall we say, _difficult_ these last few weeks, making it something of a trial for me to see certain pieces of legislation passed. I came into possession of some information that could be used to effectively minimize the opposition."

Sherlock tisked. "Dear me, brother-mine, blackmail? That's a new low, even for you."

"I prefer to think of it as _negotiation_," Mycroft said severely. "This information is only privy to myself and two other people, as well, obviously, as to those whom the intelligence concerned."

"But you feel you have a leak?" John asked with a frown.

"Whatever makes you say that?" the older Holmes asked, raising his eyebrows.

"You said you had a case," John pointed out. "The last time something like this came up, it was because someone had stolen the plans for a new missile defense system. From what you've said, I can only assume that you're concerned about your 'intelligence' leaking."

"Not a bad deduction, John," Sherlock smiled, "but it does skim over a few of the facts. For instance, the information's availability. Obviously, the people it concerns would be unwilling to volunteer the details as doing so would put their job at risk. Moreover, my brother has informed us that only three outsiders are aware of the particulars - himself and two others. Any pool that Mycroft puts himself into is bound to at the height of discretion - it's all part of the political game."

"Quite so," Mycroft nodded. "Our confidants are entirely trustworthy."

"Then what's the trouble?" John asked, confused.

"The trouble," Mycroft said, looking hard at him, "is that one of the Ministers of Parliament has gone missing. Coincidentally, the MP in question is one of those on whom we have information. And you know how I feel about 'coincidence'."

"The universe is rarely so lazy," Sherlock murmured, mantra-like, under his breath. "Indeed."

"I have his information here: James Larkin, resident of a flat just a minute's cab ride from Whitehall." Mycroft handed Sherlock a folder containing a half-dozen papers. A photograph was paper clipped to the front. "I need you to find out everything you can about him."

"When did he disappear?" the detective asked, eyes skimming the contents of the folder greedily.

"Yesterday morning. He was at work and left for an early lunch - not unusual for him. He never returned. His wife, Ashley, has not yet been informed."

Sherlock's expression twisted. "What did you tell her?"

"Whatever do you mean?" Mycroft stalled, sounding far too innocent.

"Please," the younger brother spat. "A woman's husband, an MP of significant influence, no less, and privy to incriminating information, vanishes overnight, and you expect me to believe that you haven't given the wife any sort of cover story? If you want this solved, I need the _facts_, brother-mine, and not your usual BS."

Mycroft's jaw tightened at Sherlock's outburst, but the politician restrained the cutting remark that was doubtless balancing on the edge of his tongue.

"Very well. Mrs. Larkin called into the office, of course, when her husband failed to return home last night. She was told that a series of debates over a new bill had become very heated and that James was stuck in an extended meeting. Larkin's assistant gave her the government's personal assurances that her husband would be out of the house for a period of approximately twenty-four hours until the present "crisis" blew over. Naturally, the details of said crisis were extremely vague."

"Naturally," Sherlock sneered.

"Wait a minute," John interjected. "Are you saying that this woman's husband is missing, probably kidnapped, and you didn't bother to tell her?"

"He really is so simple-minded," Mycroft said to Sherlock. "What's it like to have a... _goldfish_?"

John's initial reaction was one of deep-seated annoyance. He was surrounded on all sides by half-crazed, genius sociopaths, and the constant comparisons between him and pet animals were seriously beginning to grate. Thus it was that he missed the slight twitch of Sherlock's fingers, though even had he seen the minute movement, it is unlikely that he would have catalogued its meaning in quite the same way that the older of the two Holmeses did. He was hardly given a moment to glower at Mycroft, however, before the man turned back to him.

"No, John, I did not tell Mrs. Larkin that her husband is missing. The last thing I need at the present is a hysterical woman going to the press over this."

"She has a right to know!" John said angrily.

"What right?" Mycroft scoffed. "That information is available on a strictly need-to-know basis, and she does not need to know. Tell me, John, would it help find her husband to tell her he's missing? No. It would only upset her, and I cannot have this little incident becoming public knowledge. Sherlock will find him and avert the problem. She never has to know a thing."

"I don't like this idea, brother," the detective said, pursing his lips.

"I don't either," John agreed. "I mean, he's her hus-"

"That's not what I mean, John," the detective cut him off. "It's the _housebreaking_ I don't care for."

"What?" John turned from one Holmes to the other. "But Mycroft hasn't said anything about housebreaking!"

"Elementary," Sherlock dismissed him. "The assistant told the woman yesterday that her husband would be gone twenty-four hours. It has now been very nearly that length of time. As I hardly think Mycroft expects me to find Larkin this afternoon, particularly if this is somehow linked to someone as careful as Moriarty, I can only conclude that he intends for me to disguise myself as the woman's husband, return "home", and search the house for evidence of where he might have gone."

John gaped at his flatmate until he was forcibly reminded of Mycroft's "goldfish" metaphor, at which he snapped his jaw shut.

"But..." he said feebly. "But... you don't even _look_ like him."

"Well, that's nothing a little makeup can't fix," Mycroft smiled thinly. "I have a USB stick for you as well - the videos are from the CCTV cameras outside Larkin's flat. Study his mannerisms and be prepared to drive there as soon as you're dressed for the part. There is a great deal hanging on this, Sherlock." He withdrew a small black jump drive from his breast pocket and handed it to the detective.

"You owe me," Sherlock said mildly, taking the device from his brother.

Mycroft laughed humorlessly. "In your dreams, brother-mine. I hardly think giving you a case and a potential lead together qualifies as my owing you; if anything, _you_ owe _me_."

"Also untrue," Sherlock said coolly, "because when I find your man, I avert a loss of face for the British government. Come, John."

"Hold on a minute," the doctor said, getting to his feet. "I came here for one reason today, and with all your posturing, we haven't even touched on it." He turned sharply to face Mycroft. "Where is Sheryl?"

"As I told you yesterday, you daughter is quite safe," Mycroft said, standing as well so as to see them to the door. "There is a secret location outside of London where MI6 has a base. She's being very well-tended there. I had Anthea see to it that a nurse was hired specifically for Sheryl's care. You needn't fret."

"And Moriarty can't find her there?" John asked, refusing to be so easily placated.

Mycroft cocked his head slightly, a gesture that John found eerily reminiscent of his younger brother. "Unlikely," the politician said. "Outside of MI6, the number of people who know the bunker's location is exceptionally short. I could count them for you on one hand and have fingers left over. The probability of the information getting to our favorite terrorist is impractically low."

"Which, as I told you," said Sherlock, his baritone even lower than usual, "makes _you_ his next target. Not your daughter."

"Quite so," Mycroft agreed unconcernedly. "Therefore, I think it's rather time you two left and got to work solving this latest little puzzle. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Do you have what I'm wearing worked out as well?" Sherlock asked, his expression tending toward sardonic.

"Anthea will provide you with what you need," the elder Holmes replied, gesturing to the door. "You'll be given clothing identical to what Larkin wore to the office yesterday, as well as the prosthetics you need to make over your face. Luckily, Larkin was a tall man; you should only have to slouch a little to match his height. The MP was under surveillance ever since he became a thorn in my side, and a few of the CCTV cameras were audio enabled, so we have records of his speech patterns. It should be no trouble for someone of your... _talents_ to reproduce."

"I can't believe this," John muttered aloud as he and Sherlock climbed down the steps of the Diogenes. "This is by far the most _absurd_ -"

"More absurd than 'The Elephant in the Room'?" Sherlock asked with a smirk.

"_Yes_," the doctor said emphatically. "Because then my flatmate was not dressing as someone else's husband and masquerading as a government official!"

"Oh, please, John," Sherlock scoffed. "I've adopted stranger disguises for stranger requests than this before. I disagree with my brother's methods -"

"Well, really, who wouldn't?" John said angrily. "Having you impersonate some poor woman's -"

"- because it would be so much easier to just break in through the window without having to bother with an acting stunt," Sherlock continued, as if his companion had not spoken. "But she's expecting me, so I'll have to go, and I need someone to back me up, so obviously you have to be there as well. There's no other viable option at present."

John rolled his eyes, knowing that it would do no good to argue further. Outside, Mycroft's black car was waiting for them. The driver held the door while they climbed in, John getting squeezed in the middle between Anthea and Sherlock. He couldn't settle on which was a more awkward position. As Anthea leaned over to pass Sherlock a bundle of clothing and the doctor caught himself reflecting (again) on how pretty she was, he came to the decision that he would rather be scrunched up next to an oblivious (and male) Sherlock Holmes than a completely uninterested, completely attractive (and female) Anthea any day of the week.

"- have to be careful with where you put the latex," Anthea was explaining as she showed the detective the prosthetic features Mycroft had had ordered. "It doesn't feel quite like skin, so you can't apply it anywhere Mrs. Larkin might touch."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "That seems rather pointless," he drawled. "The woman is bound to make some display of affection after her husband has been out since yesterday. I can't exactly do that if she can't also touch my face."

Anthea shrugged. "Not my issue. You'll figure it out."

Sherlock began shifting through the clothes, scowling and muttering things about "poor taste" and "wasting fabric".

They were not long in arriving at Sherlock's (and now John's? Again?) flat. Anthea barely looked up from her phone as the men climbed out onto the pavement, presumably already informing Mycroft that they had made it to Baker Street without getting shot at. Sherlock was already undoing the buttons on his shirt as he pushed his way in through the front door.

"Back already, boys?" Mrs. Hudson asked, scurrying down the hall towards them. "Sherlock, what on _earth _-"

"Not now, Mrs. Hudson," the detective mumbled, trying to talk while holding some black article of clothing in his mouth. "'Urry, John, no' much time."

John shrugged helplessly at their flustered landlady, hoping that Sherlock wasn't going to start changing then and there on the stairs.

"Er, Sherlock...?" he began, but the dark haired man stumbled into 221B, slamming the upstairs door behind him, before the doctor could beg him to put a shirt back on.

"Fancy a cuppa, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked, taking John by the hand and leading him down the hall to her kitchen.

"Er, actually, that sounds good, yeah," John said with a small smile, taking a seat at the little country table. "Sherlock'll be a while, I'm sure."

Mrs. Hudson bustled around, putting the water on and fixing a mug with an Earl Grey tea bag, so her back was to John when she said, "I'm so sorry about Mary, dear."

A dull ache in John's gut, one that he had been fastidiously ignoring all morning, reasserted itself with sudden ferocity.

"I... don't really feel like talking about it, Mrs. Hudson," John said quietly.

"There, there, dear," she said tenderly, pressing the mug into his hands and pouring the steaming kettle water over the tea leaves. She took the seat opposite him, and John was forcibly reminded of a very similar conversation now almost three years prior.

_Nope,_ he said firmly to himself as droplets of moisture began clouding his vision, _not thinking about that right now._

"You know," the small, mousy-haired woman said seriously, "I was in a rough place too, after my husband died."

"Mrs. Hudson..." John sighed. "Your husband ran a drug cartel. You said yourself you were relieved he was gone."

"That doesn't mean it wasn't _hard_," the landlady breathed. "I mean, there I was, stuck in America, my husband electrocuted... What's a woman to do?"

"Yeah, if you don't mind my saying so, this is a little different." John did not really mean to be snippy, but the semblance of a good mood that he had managed to solder together was cracking at the seams. "My wife is _dead_, okay? She got blown up by a psychopath serial bomber and -" the blond man tried very hard to ignore how shaky his voice had become. "- and I _loved_ _her_. We had our moments, but I _loved_ her. Still do, in fact."

"I know, honey," Mrs. Hudson said softly. "And I can't promise that it'll get any easier. But look on the bright side - at least you've got Sherlock back again!"

John chuckled darkly. "Too right. And sometimes I still wonder what I was thinking, taking up with that crazy bastard again after he -"

He was cut short when at that moment, Sherlock came striding into the kitchen. Except that it wasn't Sherlock. It was unmistakably James Larkin, a picture of whom Mycroft had shown them earlier that morning. Gone were the high cheekbones, the ridiculous, omnipresent collar-and-scarf combination, and even the flyaway jet curls. Instead, John found himself staring open-mouthed at a shorter, somewhat dumpy man in a suit with slicked-back hair, a round jaw, and... brown eyes?

"Colored contacts," Sherlock said shortly. How he had known what John was thinking the doctor couldn't imagine, but the shorter (although not now by as much) man found himself unreasonably glad that the detective was sticking to his normal voice at present. The complete change of appearance was unnerving in a way it probably should not have been. "You're going to have to help me with the voice," Sherlock continued, once again following John's train of thought with borderline-psychic accuracy. "My speech will sound different to me than it will to others, and I have to be accurate."

"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson asked, clutching her chest and standing from her chair. "What are you doing?"

"It's for a case," he replied as he strode over to the still-stunned doctor, grabbed him by the wrist and started dragging him towards the stairs. "Don't bother with supper tonight - we probably won't be in!"

John shot a helpless look over his shoulder before resigning himself to being hauled up to their flat by the overgrown three-year-old.

Inside 221B, it was immediately apparent that Sherlock had dumped the entire contents of the living room's computer table on the floor to create room for a makeshift makeup stand, including, John was most distressed to see, his laptop. The detective prised this out from underneath a monolithic pile of assorted papers and plugged in his brother's USB stick, sprawling on the floor in front of the screen. A moment later, the folder containing the promised video feed opened, and Sherlock selected the first vid in the series.

The CCTV camera followed Larkin as he stepped out of the cab, zooming in as he stepped up onto the sidewalk. Watching over Sherlock's shoulder, John shivered slightly. It was creepy how much influence Mycroft Holmes had, knowing that he could track anyone he wanted to in London for any given length of time. The camera angle panned to the right as Larkin strode up to his front door. He pressed the doorbell, and the computer registered a distant _ding-dong_ \- clearly, Mycroft's influence extended to getting above-average audio quality on his monitors.

The black front door opened, and a tall, reasonably pretty brunette stepped out onto the landing. She pulled Larkin into a tight hug.

"Hello, Jamie, darling," she said. "Another long one down in Whitehall?"

"Mmm," came Larkin's muffled reply as he leaned into his wife's hair. The camera zoomed in again on the couple, filling the frame with Larkin's face. "Ministers being complete arse-holes over this new social welfare bill. If the shadow PM would just get it through his head that we need the increased funding, I swear we could have the Welsh problem resolved in a month."

"Poor baby," his wife murmured, pulling his lips to hers. "Why don't you come in and have a cuppa? I'll get the roast in the oven."

The couple entered the house and the picture froze. Frowning, Sherlock pulled open the next video, and then the next. They were all very much the same. Larkin would return home, meet his wife at the door, kiss her, and complain about his day. All very simple and domestic. So why on earth was Sherlock looking concerned?

"John?" the detective asked, steepling his fingers under his chin as he reviewed the videos again.

"If you're worried about your voice, Sherlock, I'm sure it's fine," John assured him. "I mean, your disguise couldn't be better; just say you've come down with a bug or -"

"That's not it," Sherlock interrupted, matching Larkin's intonation with an exactness that was truly disturbing.

"Then what?"

"He kisses her. Every day."

John blinked. "...Yes?"

"If I don't kiss her, she'll wonder what's wrong."

Not sure he understood the problem, John just said, "Uh-huh...?"

"She'll follow me inside, wanting to know what's wrong. I won't be able to search the house."

"So kiss her," John said, still not understanding his flatmate's consternation. "You've kissed women before."

"_A_ woman," Sherlock emphasized. "And Janine already knew that I was... inexperienced."

John blinked again as the issue clicked into place.

"Oh."

Agitated, Sherlock stood up, pacing back and forth in front of the laptop. "I haven't the foggiest bloody clue how a man kisses his wife. This can only end in a disaster."

"Oh come on Sherlock, it can't be as bad as all _that_..." John said soothingly, trying to lay a hand on his friend's shoulder. Sherlock jerked away.

"It is that bad! If I don't kiss her, she'll think I'm upset about work, and if my kissing her seems even the least bit uncomfortable, she'll think she's upset me, and either way, she'll hound me until I tell her what's wrong. How do men put _up_ with women?" He sighed in exasperation.

"Heh, imagine," said John, attempting to inject a little humor into the situation, "a case depending on something as little as a kiss?"

"And you thought this was absurd befo-" Sherlock paused mid-sentence, giving John such a look of intensity that the doctor actually took a step backwards. "You had a wife."

"...Yes?" This time, something about Sherlock's expression indicated where he was going with such a pointed statement, and John took another step backwards even as Sherlock took one toward him.

"So you know what it's like to kiss someone you're married to."

"_Yes?_"

"So show me."

To say that John was surprised would have been untrue. He had had the sinking, stomach-churning, suspicion from the moment the detective turned to look at him that this was what he was suggesting. But John's lack of surprise did not stop him feeling like someone had just dropped a pile of bricks on his head, or from uttering a flabberghasted "What?".

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I am not a parrot, John. Pay attention. Of the two of us, you're the only one who has experience with time-dulled intimacy within the restrictive bonds that is marriage, but you haven't got the acting skills to play Larkin. Ergo, the only possible solution is for you to kiss me so I know how to kiss what's-her-name."

"Ashley," John said automatically. Everything seemed to be set on "automatic" all of a sudden. Sherlock wanted him to kiss him. That was... weird. Very weird. To his everlasting horror, John could feel his cheeks beginning to turn faintly pink.

"You're uncomfortable," Sherlock said. It was not a question.

"Well - well how am I supposed to feel?" John stuttered. "I mean, a bloke tells me to _kiss_ him -"

"For a case," Sherlock cut in.

"That doesn't make it less - less...!"

"Less what?" the detective asked, looking vaguely puzzled.

"Oh, for God's sake," John groaned into his hands. "I am going to regret this. Alright, come here."

Sherlock shuffled closer until he was nearly nose-to-nose with John, looking at him expectantly, as if this were just another one of his wacky experiments.

John noted distantly that his breathing rate had accelerated. _Nothing odd about that,_ he told himself. _Who wouldn't be worried about kissing their (male!) flatmate?_

Standing slightly on tiptoe, John put his hands on the other man's chest to keep his balance, and, closing his eyes nervously, pressed his lips to Sherlock's.

At first, it was unquestionably awkward; John could feel the tips of his ears turning bright red with embarrassment. Sherlock just stood still, rigid, like a board, and it was only after he felt a slight pang of disappointment that John remembered that he was kissing _Sherlock_, not Mary, and that if the man didn't like it, then it was his own bloody fault for suggesting such an asinine means-to-an-end to begin with.

_Bugger it._

If they were going to do something so off their rockers, then John wasn't going to bother beating around the bush. Sherlock needed data? Fine.

Mentally rolling his eyes for what felt like the hundredth time that morning, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck much like Mrs. Larkin had done in the video and pulled him closer. Sherlock made a small noise of surprise as his lips found themselves more forcefully crushed against John's own, but surprise failed to turn into objection, so John saw no problem in tilting his head to the side and opening his mouth very slightly. If John had been less distracted, he was quite sure that he would not have noticed something as strange as Sherlock's pulse starting to beat more erratically under his fingers. As it was, the doctor was certain it was the product of an overactive imagination.

Or at least, that's what he told himself as Sherlock tentatively wrapped his arms around John's waist.

The detective was pushing back against John's mouth with a ferocity that was arresting, and the doctor was beginning to wonder if maybe it wasn't an accident that Sherlock's teeth had caught his bottom lip when it also dawned on him that he was enjoying himself considerably more than was possibly appropriate. What would Mary say?

Feeling like someone had just dumped a bucket of cold water over his head, and meticulously ignoring that part of him that knew Mary would've just laughed and asked if she could watch, John relinquished his grip on the back of Sherlock's neck and pulled away insomuch as he could with the detective's lanky arms still wrapped around him. Sherlock looked neither disappointed or confused, a fact which John found very briefly upsetting.

"Er," John's genius brain supplied. "Well, that is to say, uh..."

The taller man still said nothing, just regarding the doctor passively.

"That was... probably a better demonstration of how couples kiss in the bedroom than on their doorstep," John admitted sheepishly.

Sherlock blinked, a tiny crease appearing between his eyebrows.

"Yes, I'd rather gathered that," the detective said.

"And you didn't say anything because...?"

Sherlock shrugged. "You didn't seem to mind."

"_That_ is entirely beside the point," John growled, extricating himself from Sherlock's embrace.

"It was a valid experiment. I had to make sure that the latex wasn't going to interfere. Your reaction rather indicates that it didn't."

"My _reaction_?" John said indignantly. "As I recall, this was entirely _your_ idea!"

"Yes, it was," Sherlock said smoothly. "So, objective one - check that latex is applied inconspicuously - is a success. Objective two - determine how best to snog Mrs. Larkin - not so much. You'll just have to kiss me again."

John choked on a lungful of air.

"You find the idea distasteful," the detective noted, crossing his arms pensively.

"Well," the doctor gasped, still coughing, "it's just that, as the rest of London seems to love to forget, _I'm not gay_."

Sherlock gave him a very strange look, somewhere between a frown and a smirk. "I know you're not gay, John," he said. "You're constant flirtations with vapid, boring women followed by your recent marriage and child prove that quite aptly."

"Then why," John said through gritted teeth, "do you keep asking me to kiss you?"

Sherlock's sigh was one of deep personal suffering. "Must I repeat myself? I thought we had already established that -"

"Oh, shut up," John groaned. "Just _shut up_."

Standing on tiptoe, the shorter man planted the sort of tender, chaste kiss he used to give Mary on Sherlock's lips. Then before the detective had time to do more than jump slightly, John stepped back. He felt an inordinate degree of pleasure in being able to still sometimes shock the self-proclaimed genius, and was that a blush on Sherlock's cheeks? A second later, he decided it had just been a trick of the light that had cast a nearly indiscernible red glow over Sherlock's altered features.

"That's how you do it, smart-ass," John said. "Think you've got it now?"

Slowly, Sherlock nodded.

"Good." John turned and pulled open the front door. "Then let's go. You've got a lady eagerly awaiting the application your new-found 'snogging' abilities."

A smile flitted across the detective's face.

"You're right - mustn't keep her waiting. Something about 'hell hath no fury' and whatnot."

And together they strode out of 221B.


	5. Subterfuge

Subterfuge

**JOHN WATSON**

The cab ride to the Whitehall district was nothing if not uncomfortable. Sherlock maintained a silence that, while perhaps not characterizable as stony, was unquestionably one that forbade interruption. The detective's silhouette framed in the window, John could see with his peripheral vision that Sherlock had forgone his usual practice of watching the London cityscape blur past, but rather had his gaze fixed on the cabbie's headrest in front of him. John was also staring straight ahead, though he suspected Sherlock was not having to exercise so much restraint to keep himself from turning to look at the cab's other passenger.

When they arrived at the expensive flat, Sherlock paused momentarily to check that his disguise remained immaculate, which, of course, it was. John moved to climb out behind him, but Sherlock held up his hand.

"You never know who might be watching," he said, holding his cell phone to his mouth as though addressing someone on the other line. "Take the cab around the block, then get out and wait at the café across the street. If I need you, I'll send a text."

He shut the door in the doctor's face and slid the phone back into his pocket.

"Sir?" the cabbie asked, turning slightly in his chair.

John sighed, aggravated, and said, "Around the block once, and then pull up by that café."

The driver nodded and started the engine. "I know it's none of my business," he said, "but that's kinda sketchy-like. You folks with the police or something?"

"You could say that," John replied, watching Sherlock in the cab's side-view mirror. Mrs. Larkin had by this time met him on the doorstep, sweeping him into an embrace. Sherlock bent over and kissed her soundly; as the cab pulled away from the curb, she ushered Sherlock inside, probably chattering about her day and what she was fixing for dinner.

John glowered, sinking angrily into the black pleather seat. Sherlock hadn't needed to kiss him - how hard was it to just press your lips up to someone else's? Apparently, the high-functioning sociopath found it difficult - or had he just been saying that? It would be so like Sherlock to humiliate him for his own amusement. John scoffed to himself. Well, if that had been his intent, the doctor had seen to it that it flashed in the pan. He'd definitely one-uped the detective when he snogged him. Indeed, Sherlock's moment of astonishment was the silver lining on an otherwise dismal rain cloud.

The cab, having completed its circuit around the block, came to a stop outside the small coffee shop. John thanked the driver, tucking into his wallet (again) to pay for the combined fare. He ducked under the red and white striped awning, ordered a cup of English Breakfast from the bored-looking girl at the counter, and sat at a booth next to the window where he could watch the flat where even now Sherlock was presumably doing his thing.

John rubbed his forehead, nodding to the girl when she set the cup and saucer next to his elbow. Sipping the strong tea, the doctor peered over the cup's rim. Across the street, a shadow passed in front of a window; was that Sherlock?

Holding the warm cup between his fingers, John frowned. It shouldn't have been such an issue, kissing the bloody detective. He'd kissed Mike Stamford once, when they were both totally smashed. Nearly everyone had a story like that - at _least_ one. Granted, both he and Sherlock had been sober, but it was for a case. The problem, John decided, was that he had enjoyed it. The doctor grimaced and swirled his tea.

He could be objective about this. Taking a deep breath, John gave himself a moment to sort out his jumbled feelings. Five minutes later, he hung his head in despair, feeling just as confused as he had before.

_Fact: Sherlock was attractive._

Everyone knew that. Even Lestrade had commented on it once. Women could tell each other when they looked good, so there was definitely nothing inherently bent about John recognizing the fact that his flat mate was unsettlingly good-looking.

_Fact: John was not gay._

He wasn't. Despite having a penchant for frumpy jumpers and being a bit of a sentimental romantic, Dr. Watson most assuredly fell under the label of "heterosexual". He'd never felt the least bit of attraction to another man. Before that morning.

_Damn._

_Fact: He cared about Sherlock._

Of course he did. Sherlock was his best friend. If Mike hadn't introduced them, John probably would have shot himself later that same fateful afternoon. He liked the adrenaline high he got from chasing around London after serial killers and bombers and thieves and smugglers. He (usually) liked Sherlock's warped sense of humor, and (usually) found the eyeballs on the dining table amusing, even if it was also completely unhygienic.

All of that was relatively straightforward. The problem was in the final known variables.

_Problematic Fact A: John's wife died yesterday._

_Problematic Fact B: John seemed to enjoy snogging Sherlock like a stupid teenager._

Those two statements had no interest in reconciling themselves. On one hand, even the thought of Sherlock holding his waist and kissing him made his cheeks burn. On the other hand, Mary had died. Yesterday. Even if John was "legally emancipated," as Sherlock probably would term it, and could kiss whomever he pleased, that did not make it right. In fact, it was an insult to her memory that he was even having this discussion with himself. John groaned inwardly, setting his empty teacup back on the table.

It was then that he got the text.

_Meet me at the back of the flat. - SH_

* * *

**SHERLOCK HOLMES**

Ashley Larkin met me at the black-painted-oak-wood-veneer-covered-aluminum-door-typical-for-London, wearing a knee-length-no-pet-hair-black-skirt and a clean-white-hand-ironed-by-the-dry-cleaner-so-they-are-wealthy-enough-to-live-here-and-aren't-just-putting-on-appearances-blouse. Judging by the faint smear of tomato-sauce-with-cilantro-and-mango on her wrist, I had caught her in the middle of preparing dinner (but-it-was-too-early-for-dinner-so-it-must-be-some-slow-cooking-dish-that-took-hours-of-preparation).

"Jamie!" she exclaimed, pulling me to her. I could smell the generic vanilla-scented-with-an-alcohol-base perfume she was wearing (nothing-intimate-in-anticipation-of-her-husband's-return-but-also-nothing-indicative-of-an-affair).

In the voice I had been mentally rehearsing, I smiled and said, "Hello, love." I also kissed her, attempting to replicate exactly in reverse the kiss John had given me, only slightly-less-impassioned-because-there-was-obviously-less-going-on-in-the-romance-department-here-than-at-the-Watson-residence. It must have come off alright, because she smiled (recent-visit-to-the-dentist-to-slow-an-ongoing-battle-with-a-history-of-cavities) and drew me inside. I was dimly aware of the cab pulling away from the curb. John would follow my instructions. He generally did.

The house was austere-and-expensive-so-decorated-to-impress-Larkin's-political-opponents-with-his-wealth. The front room had a plush carpet hidden beneath an Oriental rug (not genuine: too-low-thread-count), an imported-teak-wood-coffee-table, and a real-black-leather-settee. The television was a 130 cm Japanese model, and a high-end one, at that. All this and more my eye took in in 0.37 seconds.

"Were you going to change before dinner?" Mrs. Larkin asked, relinquishing her grip on my arm.

"I thought I might. I haven't had a change of clothes all night, after all." I kept my tone casual, with just a hint of annoyance appropriate to one who has been stuck at work on overtime.

The woman clucked reprovingly. "What are they thinking? Keeping you there so late? From what they told me, I was worried you might be out even later."

"We caught a lucky break." I pulled my overcoat off. "They finally managed to agree on - on the terms."

Mrs. Larkin's eyebrows arched at my slight hesitation. Interesting.

"What was going on, anyway?" she asked, the very picture of nonchalance. "The wanker on the phone just said there was a 'crisis'."

I chuckled offhandedly. "Yeah, it was a crisis, all right. Some national security crap."

"So?" she asked expectantly.

I hesitated, both as an actor and as a detective. What little I knew about Larkin from Mycroft's papers suggested that even if my brother found him inconvenient, the man was a loyal citizen. That being said, his wife was clearly used to wheedling information from him. How much could I say safely? And then I had it.

"There's... Well, to tell you the truth, there's been a kidnapping," I said quietly.

My "wife's" face held shock, but her eyes, briefly, showed triumph.

_Gotcha._

"Of who?" she asked, feigning innocent curiosity.

"Can't say," I told her apologetically. "It's all very hush-hush."

"Of course," she said smoothly. "Why don't you go change? I'm making those tropical pork chops you like so much for dinner."

Repressing the urge to say "I know," I reached out and took Ashley by the waist again, kissing her gently while I carefully fished her cellphone out of her back pocket.

"I missed you," I said, tucking the mobile up my shirt sleeve as I let her go. For a moment, she had the decency to look surprised, and then her face slid back into the mask of the good British wife. I nodded to her and strode down the hall to the stairs. The bedroom would be on the second floor, and that was, conveniently, both where I needed to go to "change before supper" and the most likely place to begin searching for evidence.

I did not bother sparing a glance for the other rooms as I passed them. The information they contained was irrelevant to this case. The door at the end of the upstairs hall was ajar, and led into a chic master bedroom. There was a (teak-with-ebony-inlays) desk in the corner under one of the two double-paned windows that framed the voluptuous (cotton-sheets-with-real-feather-pillows-on-a-mahogany-bedstead) bed.

I walked straight to the desk, rifling through the contents. Bills, tax forms, assorted receipts for innocuous household goods - nothing useful. I felt a buzz in my shirt sleeve and realized I was still hiding Mrs. Larkin's mobile. Irritated, I withdrew it, intending to toss it onto the bed, when my eye caught sight of exactly how the text message read.

I had never realized my face contained enough color to feel so big a drain when my brain caught up to what I was seeing. Hurriedly, I pulled out my own mobile and texted John.

_Meet me at the back of the flat. - SH_

I could climb out the window, and Miss Ashley would be none the wiser. Dropping heavily onto the bed, I opened her text messages (her first mistake: not keeping her phone password protected).

I reread the most recent message, breathing deeply through my nose.

It was from a blocked number.

_12:09 pm_  
_I'll have someone there in ten. - JM_

I looked at the time. It was already 12:10. I had nine minutes. John would be here in four, which gave us five to get to a place of relative safety. Four, if John asked questions.

I scrolled back up through her previous texts.

_11:59 am_  
_There's a cab out front, just like you said. Two men, it looks like, plus the driver. - AL_

_10:30 am_  
_You're going to get a visit later. Two men, one who looks like James. Play along. - JM_

_Yesterday_  
_9:46 am_  
_It's finished. - JM_

_Two days ago_  
_7:46 pm_  
_I'm fixing it as we discussed. And I'll have someone come collect in ten. - JM_

_7:32pm_  
_I've got the info you wanted. Ukraine election. Kiev. Call-collect for full account. Remember the deal. - AL_

I kept reading. There was a lot to go through. At the three-minute mark, I stood and pushed the window open, carefully popping the screen out of place and sliding it under the bed. No need to make the clean-up too easy for anyone. Then I grabbed tightly to the window sill and swung myself over, hanging precariously for a moment while I checked that I wasn't about to drop in front of any other windows. Luckily, that part of the wall was nothing but brick and siding, so I allowed myself to drop, landing on top of a large rhododendron bush. Anyone with some modicim of sense would be able to look at the bruised, broken leaves and know where I fell, not to mention the missing screen from the window above. Still, the plants absorbed most of the shock, so while I found myself rather scratched up, at least I had not twisted an ankle. I made my way across the yard, sticking to the paved garden path as much as I could to minimize tracks in the lawn.

John met me at the gate, eyes widening when he saw me, so I drew the conclusion that something about dropping from a second story window had probably dishevelled my appearance.

"You alright?" he asked, pulling a leaf out of my hair.

"Not for long," I said quietly. Grabbing his arm, I slipped out the gate and started down the sidewalk. "Your poor little Miss Ashley isn't quite so harmless as we were thinking. I doubt Mycroft needs to tell her James has been kidnapped - it appears that she set her husband up."

I could almost hear John's jaw drop and smiled grimly as I veered onto the lawn of a neighboring apartment complex. There was a tools shed on the side, and I could tell from the street that it was unlatched. Pushing John roughly inside, I climbed in after him and pulled the door exactly as shut as it had been before - open by exactly an inch and two eighths. It smelled of moldy-disuse-because-the-tenants-had-the-money-to-hire-their-own-gardeners, but it was in just the right spot to watch the Larkins' flat.

"Time?" I asked John, staring at the window I had jumped from.

"Uh... 12:17," he replied. _Two minutes left._ "Sherlock, what exactly is going on?"

"Ashley Larkin is working for Moriarty," I said. John's sharp intake of breath indicated that he now understood some of why we were hiding in a musty, abandoned tools shed. "According to the texts she has been exchanging, they have been in communication for about two weeks. She has been selling him government information supplied by an unsuspecting Mr. Larkin. Apparently, he liked to talk about his job a little more than is healthy for an MP. Moriarty set up James' kidnapping as a favor for Ashley in return for the information. Mrs. Larkin is a bit shallow - she suspected her husband was losing favor with people high up, so she had him offed. He's probably dead. If he isn't, he will be soon."

"Jesus."

"Mmm." I stood as close as was feasible to the door, watching the street outside for any activity.

"Sherlock," John said quietly behind me.

"Mmm?"

"We need to talk about earlier."

"Which part of earlier?"

"The part where you asked me to -"

"Shh." A cab had just passed by; possibly it was our welcoming committee come to say hello with a piece of lead and a large revolver.

"What?" John's question was sharp. Interesting.

"I told you - Ashley Larkin is trouble."

"But why are we out here?" he whispered, watching the flat opposite over my shoulder. The trepidation was apparent in his voice. "Shouldn't we be getting more evidence?"

I passed him Ashley's mobile. "Read the first text."

A moment passed as John unlocked the device.

"Oh."

"Indeed."

"So someone's going to -"

John's sentence (presumably about to end in something truly original like "just show up?") was cut off by a scream which was in turn cut off by a gunshot.

"Oh, shit," John breathed. "Sherlock, we have to -"

"There's nothing to be done, John," I said flatly. "She's already dead. This is one of Moriarty's hit men, remember. A hit man who will probably come looking for us in a second."

Right on cue, I could see the back door of the flat open and a tall, well-built thug stepped out, carrying a semi-automatic.

_Tan lines suggest military duty somewhere hot - possibly Afghanistan like John. Current occupation suggests a mercenary. Muscle development indicates advanced martial arts skill, and also a possible steroid addiction._

It wasn't Moran, but Moriarty's assassin still looked well-equipped to handle the gun he was hefting. I slipped my hand into John's jacket pocket, stealthily removing his Browning even as the doctor stared at the killer on the other side of the fence. The mercenary took in his surroundings judiciously, examining all of the nearby buildings with equal care. He was evaluating them, I realized, trying to figure out which one I would have fled to.

Then the man's eyes landed on our tool shed. He stared straight at me, and though I knew that the darkness and the door were more than enough to conceal us from sight, I also knew we were found out, all the same.

Ashley's phone buzzed in John's hand.

"It says 'Peekaboo'," he said, obviously disgusted.

"Tasteless," I muttered.

I could see the possible scenarios plainly in my head. If I shot him now, Moriarty would know without question where we were, if he didn't already. If I did not shoot, then the assassin would, and the wooden shed was hardly in any condition to repel bullets.

My plan was a poor one - I am the first to admit it. However, my number of options was also severely limited.

"On the ground," I said tersely.

John did not question the order, lying flat on his stomach. Perhaps he guessed what I was going to do. Probably. As I said, it wasn't ingenious, just unexpected. Unfortunately, that was as good as it was likely to get. I joined the doctor on the floor, pressing myself as close to the damp, splintery floor as I could.

Then the shooting started.

Dozens of bullets raked the shed at chest height - had either of us been standing, we would have been dead. I wrinkled my nose as I felt chips of wood falling down onto my hair. The second bullet stream was lower, closer to the ground, and I could hear John's nervous hiss as he shrank closer to me, covering his head and trying to flatten himself.

I was just thinking that maybe covering my head wasn't a bad idea when the shots petered out. Though the force of the shots had shoved the door the rest of the way closed, the wood was now so pockmarked with bullet holes that I could see clearly the dark outline of a man on the other side. I raised John's gun, aiming carefully. The door creaked open, and it was only John's exclamation of relief that stopped me from shooting detective inspector Lestrade in the chest.

* * *

**JOHN WATSON**

"Get in a little over your heads?" Lestrade asked, offering John his hand.

"I had things perfectly under control, thank you," Sherlock answered coolly, getting to his feet.

John took the DI's hand as Lestrade laughed and pointed at the ruined tool shed.

"You call this 'under control'?"

"Oh come, now," said Sherlock, smirking. "A little gunfire isn't _that_ unusual for the London PD, is it?"

"Sherlock, that bloke turned this thing into Swiss cheese."

"And if it would have been him opening the door, and not you, I would have shot him," the detective replied calmly, handing John his gun.

John stared at the small firearm.

"Christ!"

"Not quite," Sherlock said with a small smile.

"No, seriously though," John said, turning to look at the detective. "How the _hell_ did you get a hold of this without me noticing?"

"You were a little distracted by the gunman," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. "It wasn't very hard." He frowned at Lestrade. "What are you doing here, anyway? I don't recall calling the police."

"You didn't," Lestrade said shortly. "That one did." He nodded at John. "Bloody good job, too, or else we might have two bodies instead of one."

"Three," Sherlock corrected automatically, peering over the DI's shoulder to where the assassin was lying face-down in the grass.

"Pardon?"

"The mercenary shot a woman in the house approximately a minute before he came looking for me."

Lestrade swore. "Why didn't you say something sooner? We could've called an ambulance!"

"No point," the detective answered, still sweeping the corpse on the lawn with his eyes. "The man you shot is a trained killer - Ashley Larkin was dead before she hit the ground. Possibly it's just as well. She did have Moriarty kidnap, and theoretically murder, her husband."

The detective inspector had gone slightly slack-jawed at this retelling.

"Wait, hold on," he said. "Moriarty is behind this?"

"Of course," Sherlock sniffed. "Wasn't it obvious? He's probably watching us right now. I imagine he expected this to happen - that would be why he sent Tweedle-Dumb instead of his pal, Moran. Didn't want his boy toy getting shot."

"Er, Sherlock..." John said, "there's a bit of a problem, isn't there? We know Moriarty did this, but if he's dead," John nodded at the assassin, "and she's dead," he nodded at the house, "then how do we find out where Moriarty is? I don't think we're any further now than we were this morning."

Sherlock snorted. "You are correct in one respect, John: you certainly _don't_ think. We are most assuredly farther in our investigation than we were when you got out of bed."

"Care to elaborate, then?" Lestrade asked.

"Moriarty practically led us here. He thinks he's playing cat and mouse, but with the help of some of the evidence we found today, it should be only a matter of time until I work out where he's holed up."

"What evidence are you talking about, Sherlock?" said John. "I mean, granted, I only showed up in time to get shot at, but from what you told me -"

The detective brushed him off. "There is plenty to be observed, if only one actually looks. Take our friendly cadaver here, for instance." Sherlock stepped around Lestrade and strode to where the gunman's corpse had collapsed. "The detective inspector's team was lucky - they drove up behind him and he was intent on making you and I full of holes, so he didn't realize the danger. It was Lestrade who shot him, since Sally usually does the driving, and the detective inspector's gun is a different model from hers, so the wound looks different to the trained eye."

"Right as always," the DI nodded, pulling out a cigarette. "Any idea who he is?"

"Not presently," Sherlock admitted. "No special tattoos that I can see, nor does he match the profile of any of the 457 world-class hit men of which I am aware. Probably he's nothing more than your run of the mill hired mercenary. I'll have Mycroft look into it. At any rate, who he is isn't nearly as important as where he came from."

"Because if he came from wherever Moriarty is hiding out, and you can deduce the location, then we know where Moriarty is hiding?" John asked, kneeling next to the body.

"Precisely," Sherlock said with satisfaction.

"So can you?" Lestrade asked. "Deduce his location, I mean."

"This second? No." Sherlock carefully pushed the dead man onto his back. "There's too much information to consolidate at once. I need to gather what I can here and then sit in my mind palace for a while, preferably _without_ distraction." He looked meaningfully at John.

"_I'm_ distracting?" John asked incredulously. "I don't make a habit of shooting holes in the wall or exploding beakers in the microwave or reenacting murders in the bathtub or -"

"I know that," Sherlock said calmly, examining the bottom of the gunman's boots, scraping off a soil sample and capping it in a plastic canister. "But you can be distracting nevertheless. Attempts at conversation. Crap telly. Tapping away at your little blog."

"Sherlock..." said Lestrade, a hint of warning in his voice, perhaps recognizing the murderous glint in John's eyes.

"Right, got it," the detective said, ignoring both the other men on the scene. "Call a cab."

"Call one yourself," John muttered, but he started down to the street anyway.

Sherlock was already talking to himself about the contents of his soil sample when he joined the doctor on the street corner.

"Obvious organic content... Water-saturated, but then it has been wet today..."

He slid into the cab without so much as a word to John, who followed after a moment's hesitation on the sidewalk. The detective's taciturn nature all the way back to the flat did nothing to lessen John's mounting frustration. No matter how uncomfortable the conversation, Sherlock was not going to evade the question of what happened that morning by being even more rude and antisocial than usual, nor did the present crisis mean he had the right to act like as much of a prat as he damn well pleased.

The cab car pulled to a stop outside of 221B, and, eager to begin experimenting, Sherlock was halfway through the door before John even managed to climb out the back seat. The doctor trudged to the door himself, hands buried in his pockets. Inside, ascending the stairs, he found the door to their flat hanging on its hinges and Sherlock inside, running around like a madman as he carried boxes of laboratory equipment to the kitchen table.

"Where did you get all that?" John asked, ducking out of the way as the detective marched past with a flask of 5.0 molar Hydrochloric Acid in one hand and an equally strong bottle of Sodium Hydroxide in the other. "I swear I've never seen half of this stuff before. And since when do you own a... whatever that is?"

"Atomic absorption spectrometer. And I don't. I'm borrowing it from Molly."

"Borrowing it?" John looked quizzically at the large machine now sitting where the microwave had been that morning.

"Well, I'm not planning to keep it, so it counts as borrowing."

"She doesn't know you took it, does she?"

Sherlock coughed and did not reply, instead dividing his soil sample into a half-dozen smaller petri dishes. John leaned against the doorframe, watching as his flat mate measured out a milliliter of the basic solution and distilled it before pouring it over the first dish. The detective then placed a pH paper on top of the dirt, watching it turn blue green.

"So the original sample was weakly acidic," he murmured aloud, reaching for another instrument.

John chose that moment to speak.

"You can't ignore me all afternoon."

Sherlock did not even look up as he scrawled "silty" on a notepad.

"I'm not ignoring you."

"But you are evading my question."

"What question?"

"What I was trying to talk to you about before we nearly got shot to death?"

The detective paused as though thinking a moment. Then he said, "Nope. Must have deleted it."

John sighed aloud, tucking his hands under his armpits as he leaned more heavily on the wall.

"I was asking you about this morning. The... _kiss_. What was that about, really?"

This time, Sherlock's stopping was not an exaggerated pantomime. In fact, for an instant he looked decidedly discomfited.

"You know it was for a case," he said, turning to look at John, his expression unreadable.

"Because the great Sherlock Holmes couldn't figure out how to kiss a girl?"

"As I told you," he replied, turning to glare at the stove instead, "relationships aren't really my area."

John frowned. "So you expect me to believe that in all your life you've never snogged anyone before?"

He could practically hear the eye roll when Sherlock answered him. "Plenty of people choose to remain celibate, John."

"Yeah, a nun might," the doctor chuckled. "And I asked if you've snogged someone before, not about your sex life."

"I never really understood the point," the detective said, turning back to putter with his little dishes of earth. "What could possibly be pleasing about having someone shove their tongue down your throat? Especially since I can tell _exactly_ where it's been."

"Endorphins," John argued, caught up in proving, once and for all, that kissing did have merit. "But the physical sensation isn't the sole point, Sherlock. It's about -"

"Yes, John, fascinating. I know you seem to think that constant lectures on sentimentality might cause some of it to rub off on me, but as a high-functioning sociopath, I really don't care. Leave me alone, I'm working."

John blinked rapidly, struggling to contain his hurt feelings.

"Yeah, alright," he said quietly. "Have fun working, _alone_. I'm going to... go read a book or something."

Disgusted, the blonde man exited the kitchen in a huff, going to his room and dropping onto the bed. He tried to distract himself, flipping through his copy of _The Art of War_, but when he came to the realization that he had reread the same paragraph three times and still didn't know what it said, he gave up. It was blatantly unfair that Sherlock had such a knack for getting on his nerves. He couldn't even go get a pint at the pub by himself unless he wanted to risk getting drugged, shot, kidnapped, blown up...

The list continued, and John was exhausted just thinking about it. Throwing the novel on the floor, the doctor paced to the window, peering out the curtain at the quiet Baker Street below. He wasn't going to think about the detective, he decided. He would focus on finding Moriarty. He let his forehead rest on the cool glass, purging his thoughts of Sherlock and imagining instead how good it was going to feel to wring Moriarty's sorry neck.

Then as John let the curtain fall back into place, he groaned quietly, wondering who he thought he was kidding.


	6. And Old Lace

Sorry this chapter took an eternity; I had a lot of research I had to do to make sure that it was moderately coherent from a scientific perspective. Contains implied slashiness and a lot of stream-of-consciousness!Sherlock.

* * *

And Old Lace

**JOHN WATSON**

**Sunday Morning**

It was pitch dark outside and someone was shaking him.

John rolled over with a grunt of discontentment to find Sherlock bent over him, curls bouncing and his face alight with the familiar glow of the detective on the scent.

"Are you awake?" Sherlock whispered hoarsely.

"No, I'm sound asleep," John groaned, "because that's how I like to be at - God damn, Sherlock! - two in the bloody morning. Get _off_."

Sherlock dropped onto the end of the bed, pulling his knees up under him like a crouching bird of prey.

"Sleep is boring, John," he said. "Get up. I've found something."

The doctor rubbed his bloodshot eyes, dragging himself upright enough to glare blearily at the other man.

"This had better be good," he warned, "or else I _swear_ -"

"I know where Moriarty is," said Sherlock. John shut his mouth. "The soil sample. It was comprised primarily of water-saturated silt-sized particulate matter. Moreover, the percent organic content was unusually high. According to the tensile strength and arrangement of the plant fibers, they originated in various native grass species, Golden Dock especially."

"So some sort of a bog?" John asked, frowning.

"A _marsh_, John," Sherlock moaned, as if the distinction should have been transparent. "A bog would be too acidic for most horticultural life forms."

"Alright, so a marsh," the doctor said impatiently. "Which doesn't narrow it down especially."

Sherlock's lips quirked mischievously, and he leaned in like a schoolboy telling a secret. "On its own, no, it doesn't. But the tests also pulled up some other very interesting compounds. Tell me if these mean anything to you: diphenylamine, ethyl centralite, and nitrodiphenylamine."

"Those are all explosives!"

"Quite," the detective-turned-chemist nodded. "And the tests found unusually high concentrations of lead and zinc."

"Gunfire," John breathed. "Are there any marshes around London that have seen battle?"

Sherlock snorted. "Doubtless most of them have at some point in history. We need to determine a more specific time period. The sheer volume of explosive agents means that the place in question was home to something more significant in scope than a mere afternoon's skirmish, while the use of lead puts the end date of the site's military use no less than fifty years ago. Couple with that the soil type and plant matter, and we know exactly where Moriarty has ferreted himself away."

The doctor stared blankly at him. "We do?"

"Of course! Isn't it obvious? Rainham Marshes!"

"The nature reserve?" John asked incredulously.

"Yes! Before it was converted into a modern, environmentally conscious research site, it housed a military firing range. The old facilities are all still there."

"By why would Moriarty pick somewhere as ridiculous as a _nature reserve _to hide?"

"Please, John. Plenty of reasons. It's out of the way, hard to navigate for anyone not sticking to the hiking trails - and they all conveniently skirt the military base, by the way - and it is overall an ideal place to set a trap for a doctor and a consulting detective."

"Oh, he's trapping us now?" said John, crossing his arms. "I thought the point of the exercise was for us to get him, not the other way around."

Sherlock brushed this aside. "He anticipated his gunman getting shot; naturally he'll have set things in order such that we go right where he wants us. The trick is in our knowing it's a trap and being cleverer."

"And are you?"

"Cleverer than Moriarty?" The detective did not even have to consider his answer. "Certainly. I, for one, am spending the night in a comfortable flat whereas he is camped in some dismal breeding ground for mosquitos. That by itself indicates intellectual superiority."

"Yeah, alright, Sherlock," John yawned. "And, speaking of 'spending the night', how about you go back to your room so that I don't fall asleep while we're investigating the aforementioned mosquito breeding ground."

"Ah. Yes. Of course."

Sherlock's hand was on the door when he turned around and said, "Good night, John."

He got nothing more than a muffled snore in reply, but when he made it out into the hallway, he was smiling.

* * *

**JOHN WATSON**

**Sunday Morning, Some Time Later**

As if being woken by Sherlock wasn't to be enough, John slept poorly after the fact. The sunlight beginning to filter in under the curtains was not helping matters. Thus it was that John Watson found himself awake and alert at the ungodly hour of 6:00 in the morning.

Sherlock, predictably, had not slept, but he had at least made the effort of changing clothes and taking after some personal grooming. The doctor found him in the kitchen, packing lab equipment back into boxes that were "appropriated within the boundaries of the law, John".

When Sherlock finished, he looked up at John and surprised him, saying, "Let's go out for breakfast."

"_You_ are going to eat breakfast," John restated skeptically. "Two days in a row? I've got to call a pastor - that has to be one of the signs of the apocalypse."

"Even I can recognize the dangers of chasing Moriarty down on an empty stomach. Once we launch our investigation, who knows when we'll have time to eat again? So yes, we're going to breakfast."

"Alright," John grinned. "But you're paying."

In lieu of one of the farther cafés, the detective took John back to Angelo's, which John privately felt was more out of a disinclination to pay than it was an objection to distance. The restaurateur provided complimentary meals as per his usual (ones which were, in truth, quite tasty), and also according to custom set a flickering tea light on the table between the blonde man and his flatmate. John's mouth twisted in annoyance, but for once did not try to tell Angelo that he and Sherlock were not partners. This omission was not missed by the detective, who sat forward and folded his fingers under his chin, gracing John with yet another of his intense periods of staring.

"It's rude to drool," John commented, resigning himself to carb-laden lasagne for his breakfast. The doctor in him couldn't bring itself to approve, even as his mouth started to water.

"You're the one nearly drooling all over your plate, not me," Sherlock said unblinkingly.

"It's rude to stare, then," John amended. "Eat your lasagne."

Sherlock immediately cut into his pasta. In retrospect, John knew he should have realized that such easy acquiescence was a bit too suspicious.

Indeed, a moment later, Sherlock looked back up and said, "You didn't tell him to take it. The candle."

John shook his head. "I am _not_ having this discussion with you."

"Why not?"

"Because you'll try to read too much into it."

"Worried I'll figure something out?" the detective said cheekily.

It was obviously meant in jest, but that didn't stop John's temper flaring. "You don't _get_ emotions," he snapped. "You'll draw entirely the wrong conclusion. I'm just sick of arguing with Angelo over it, okay?"

"Alright." Sherlock's tone had gone from friendly to cool in a flash, and John was immediately contrite, though he tried not to show it. Truth be told, he really wasn't certain what it was about the detective's words that had rattled him so badly. He _was_ tired of trying to explain to people that he wasn't dating Sherlock. That was all there was to it. And if their live-in relationship was more strained after yesterday morning, that was to be expected. It would pass. He ignored the back corner of his mind that was quietly reliving the memory of Sherlock kissing him, because he definitely did _not_ want the detective as anything more than a flatmate. That was all there was to it.

Typically, Sherlock chose that moment to derail his train of thought.

"John," he said quietly. That one soft word froze the doctor's breath in his chest.

"Yes?"

"There's something else I figured out last night."

John slowly set his fork down on the table. "What is it?"

"The other crimes. The ones that didn't seem to have any correlation to each other."

"What about them?"

"I was looking at a map of London when I figured out that the pattern of the crimes makes an 'M' across the city."

"'M' for Moriarty," John sighed.

"I thought so, too, at first," the detective said. He looked almost guiltily across the table. "But I doubt he would be so obvious. It's 'M' for 'Mary', John. Or 'W' for Watson, depending on which map you use. I _knew_ that I had been missing something - maybe if I could have connected the dots faster, she would still be here."

"Sherlock," John said quietly, reaching across the table to take the detective by the hand. "Even you can't predict the future. There was no way you could have known in advance what Moriarty was spelling out." Sherlock still looked upset, and John didn't like it. He began rubbing small little circles on the top of the detective's hand, wondering if the sociopath in him would be in any way calmed. At first, the detective's fingers jerked away at the contact, but a moment later he seemed to relax into it slightly. John didn't know whether it was the gentle touch itself that eased some of Sherlock's barely concealed dis-ease or simply the novelty of it, but he was glad all the same to see some of the customary, curious glint return to the other man's eyes.

Angelo returned to their table then, and John quickly removed his hand, feeling the tips of his ears again turning red. The burlier fellow decided to go the diplomatic route and not comment, instead handing John another glass of water. Next, he turned to Sherlock.

"Some bloke just walked in and asked me to give you this," Angelo said, handing the detective an envelope. "Dunno who he was," he continued as Sherlock frowned at the cardstock and used his fork as a letter-opener. "He came in, handed this to me, and left before I looked up."

Extracting the note from inside, the detective gave it a once-over before choking on an inhalation and reaching across the table to knock John's drink out of his hand.

"Sherlock!" John said indignantly. "What was that for?"

"How much of the water did you drink, John?" Sherlock asked frantically, entirely ignoring a now-bemused Angelo. "How many milliliters?"

"Uh..." said John blankly. "I - I don't know. Fifty, maybe? Sherlock, what's wrong?"

Wordlessly, the detective pushed the letter across the tabletop. With mounting agitation, the doctor scanned the memo. His stomach felt like it was falling, splashing his insides, a sensation that he fervently hoped was due to his sudden terror and not because of something _else_.

The note read as such:

_Might want to stop John drinking that water. Oops, too late. - Jim_

John looked up, his eyes wide.

"What did he put in my drink?" he asked.

* * *

**SHERLOCK HOLMES**

"What did he put in my drink?"

John stared at me as I struggled to keep my face from reflecting the same horror that was written across John's own expression. My mind racing wildly, I looked him over for any hint, any clue of what Moriarty had done now.

_Obvious pallor, presumably a result of sudden shock. Heavy breathing, also a potential side effect of trauma. Too many variables, analysis incomplete._

Even as I was opening my mouth to admit I had no idea what Moriarty had given him, John stood abruptly.

"I'm going to be sick," he managed, before bolting for the bathroom. In an instant, I was out of my seat, for once made to chase him instead of visa versa. I ignored Angelo's exclamation behind me, and reached the bathroom just in time to watch John vomit the contents of his stomach across the bathroom tiles.

"Attractive," I said sarcastically. "So you're throwing up. How do you feel?"

"Like someone shoved a knife through my insides," my flatmate said with teeth clenched.

I knelt beside where he had collapsed, feeling his forehead with the back of my hand. _No fever._

"I need you to be a little more medical in that analysis, doctor," I said, keeping my voice as clinical as possible. "Describe your symptoms to me _exactly_."

John gave me what approximated a glare but which quickly turned into a grimace as he retched again.

"_Fine_," he growled. "My stomach and intestines feel like someone stuck a knife through them."

"That's never happened to you; you can't possibly know that that's an accurate comparison." I was speaking mindlessly, my mouth spouting the vague thoughts running across the upper echelons of my consciousness as I sifted through the contents of my mind palace.

_Castor oil - too lethal. He'd be dead already._

_Cyanide - wrong symptoms. He's pale, not red, and he hasn't fainted._

_Atropine - still wrong; he's not hallucinating. Yet._

"Do you have any ideas what it might be?" I asked him. The possibilities were too numerous. Vomiting? Stomach pain? The same conditions could indicate any number of poisons.

_Find more data. Narrow the field of probabilities._

"I'm a bloody _doctor_! I don't work for poison control!"

My hand went automatically to my phone, plugging in the number for an ambulance.

_The toxin was dissolved in water - a polar molecule._

"Did your water taste strange?" I asked. John leaned heavily on me, his breathing ragged.

"No different than it usually does here."

_Tasteless_.

"Don't panic," I told him, looking him right in the eyes. "Moriarty won't want to kill you yet."

John shuddered violently as a convulsion ran through him.

"You... sure about that?" he gasped.

"...No," I admitted.

_Vomiting-stomach-pain-convulsions-water-soluble-polar-tasteless_-_what?!_

Then I had it.

_Arsenic_.

"John," I said quietly, insistently. "You've been given arsenic. I've called an ambulance already. It shouldn't kill you; you didn't drink much of the water, and arsenic's LD50 is 14.6 milligrams per kilogram."

John groaned softly. "God, I feel awful."

"I know. Come on, let's get you cleaned up." I stood and pulled John to his feet, settling him where he could rest his weight on the bathroom sink. Running water over a piece of paper towel, I wiped the bile from the corners of John's mouth, then held him in place as another wave of tremors overtook him. Outside, a siren blared, and I managed to repress a sigh of relief.

"Why did he do this?" John murmured in my ear. "He could've killed me - why not have done with it?"

A shiver of my own swept through me at his words; they had evoked a tangled mess of emotions, and I didn't know what any of them meant. I didn't like not knowing.

"He's making a point," I murmured back. "It seemed safe so long as you stayed close to me. He's reminding us that he can have you killed anywhere, anytime, even when I'm right next to you."

Just then, Angelo rapped on the bathroom door.

"You in there, Sherlock?" he called. "It's only that I've got a whole mess of paramedics out here and -"

"Well, send them in!" I snapped. "John's been poisoned!"

"What?" Angelo gasped. "But -!"

Wrapping John's arm around my shoulder, I pulled the both of us up. He was shaking consistently now, and skin that had been too cool was now burning through his shirt. I knocked the door open, bypassing a dumbstruck Angelo, and bundled John into the arms of a nonplussed nurse.

"Acute arsenic poisoning," I told her sharply. "Ingested. It was dissolved in his water."

Angelo had apparently overheard enough of this exchange to worry about his own culpability in the drama.

"His water? How could that have -"

"You had nothing to do with it, obviously," I said, rounding on the distressed restaurant owner. "Your new kitchen boy, on the other hand, will have split after doing what Moriarty was paying him for."

Behind my back, I could hear the paramedics taking John out to the ambulance.

"Moriarty?" Angelo's eyes were like dinner plates; he knew the name. Who didn't?

"Moriarty," I agreed grimly. I turned on my heel and followed the medics out the door, climbing into the back of the emergency vehicle. One of them suggested I take a cab instead; I said something about how he should just tell his wife he found her unattractive. They left me alone after that.

John was lying on a stretcher, eyes closed as he fought against the toxin in his system. I held the hand nearest me, trying to soothe some of its ceaseless trembling. It was an eight-minute ride to St. Bart's. We would make it. John would make it. He had to.

* * *

**SHERLOCK HOLMES**

**That Night**

Sea-foam-wall-paper-covered-in-thousands-of-tiny-ridges sheathed the walls, trapping in the Lysol-chemical-sterile scent that was ubiquitous throughout most of St. Bart's. The maestro and metronome of the mechanical symphony, the clock, ticked steadily above the door. I stared straight ahead at the textured wall across from me, listening to the cacophony of machinery that was a hospital room.

There was the steady beeping of the heart rate monitor. John's pulse was steady. That was good.

There was the whir of the dialyzer which had spent all afternoon filtering arsenic out of John's bloodstream. The doctors hadn't let me sit in during the hemodialysis, even after I carefully articulated every conceivable reason I deserved admittance and rebutted each of their weak objections with a thoughtful examination of why their logic was faulty.

There was the steady gurgle of the water purifiers, which had kept John hydrated during the dialytic procedure, and the low buzz of the computer monitoring the intravenous tube in my flatmate's arm. This was full of Dimercaprol, which would theoretically neutralize the remainder of the arsenic he had ingested.

I knew that if I looked at him, he'd be asleep, relaxed and presently untroubled by nightmares in a drug-induced slumber. He hadn't been given a respirator, as his breathing was strong, and the convulsions had stopped during the dialysis. He was fine. The nurse said John would be well enough to leave tomorrow, though he would have to return as an outpatient in three day's time to check that the recovery was going smoothly. So why was it so hard to look down at the bed next to me?

_Sentiment,_ I decided. That was the only explanation. Granted, it was an extremely implausible one where I was concerned, but when all other explanations have been eliminated, whatever is left, however implausible, must be truth. It wasn't that there was a physical injury to find visually unappealing, nor would looking at John wake him or cause him other distress as it sometimes seemed to when he was awake. The opposite wall was by no means an engaging object at which to stare for three hours. Thus, it had to be due to some derivative of sentiment that I found it difficult to look down at my comatose friend.

So sentiment, then. I didn't like emotion; it was unpredictable, volatile, and had dangerous effects on one's judgement. It was only logical to sift through these feelings, to sort them out, categorize them so that later I would be able to identify properly correlations and causations. John and I were friends. He had overreacted when I faked my suicide, which in retrospect was perhaps predictable even if it was illogical, but that was, according to my understanding, the sort of thing friends did when someone died. He'd gotten over it.

John had shot people in my defense, and I had in turn rescued him from Chinese crime syndicates, large explosives, and every variety of lesser criminal in London. That seemed to be, while perhaps not the sort of track record most friends kept, still a continuation of the vague parameters I had long labelled "sentiment" and pushed to one side. Nailing down the corners of those parameters, dissecting what could only be termed "feelings", was more difficult than I had given it credit for. Simply because I didn't _need_ affection surely didn't mean that I was incapable of understanding it if I felt it bore me some relevance.

I took a breath, centering myself. John understood emotions. He was only marginally more observant than the rest of the sheep surrounding me, and his ability to derive meaningful deductions from what he saw was sorely lacking, but while he was _useful_ for his medical knowledge, what made him _invaluable_ to me was his grasp of why people act as they do. I could pick apart the "how" of it in an instant - a marriage turned sour, a bad childhood, a history of illness - but while I could tell Lestrade that a cabbie poisoned people to protect his children, John empathized with the paternal emotions that inspired the crime and with the victims' terror at their position. I didn't. I couldn't.

Or at least, I had always believed I couldn't.

I followed the threads of my thoughts, untangling them, restoring order to the only corner of my palace that I left neglected. John had called me his "best" friend before his wedding. That indicated that he felt his connection with me was stronger than his relationship with his other friends. I did not recall his ever mentioning shooting a man to defend Stamford, so this seemed like a sound conclusion. To say that John was my best friend would be a misnomer. More properly, John was my only friend. Mrs. Hudson was like the conventional mother I never felt I had, and having Lestrade around seemed much akin to how Mycroft felt around me (id est: like having an annoying, dim-witted little brother), but John was beyond that. He stood alone, on a pedestal, not above me, but not beneath me, either. He just _was_. And I respected him.

This was what most people would have termed an epiphany, though I made it a point to not subscribe to such fanciful ideas of revelation and self-discovery. Nevertheless, there was something profoundly unsettling about realizing that I recognized John as my equal, even though he could not come close to matching my intellect. Moriarty and I had a mutual esteem of each other that bordered on wary admiration, but it was not really respect. How John had earned as much from me I could not yet determine.

And then there was that bizarre undercurrent of tension that had been a ubiquitous presence since the inception of the Larkin case. There was no need to analyze potential causations; the impetus was obvious. John had been uncomfortable ever since I had had him kiss me, and I was uncomfortable with his being uncomfortable. What was it about John's awkwardly dancing around the subject that knocked my internal homeostasis off-kilter?

John did not want me mistaking him for being gay. Possibly this was a defense mechanism to suppress a latent tendency toward homosexuality, but I had to doubt the credibility of such an assumption. More probably, John was concerned that I was gay, and that my request (made in the name of justice) was an attempt to "come on" to him, which was as fallacious as it was ludicrous. Clearly, my flatmate's preoccupation with sentimentality was obfuscating his ability to recall that I had no such compunctions, and, had I felt like a demi-romantic relationship would prove reciprocally beneficial, I would have simply made the proposition rather than attempt to quietly win him over with ineffective subtleties.

Yes, clearly, John had forgotten about that. And yet, he had still agreed to do it. In fact, he had been rather enthusiastic -

I paused in my reflection as I took note of a hitherto unrecognized phenomena: I was actually feeling a bit... warmer than the standard 37 degrees Celsius. My first thought was to feel my forehead; my body temperature did not seem to be above normal, and indeed, even as I sat there, the sensation faded. What had provoked such a reaction, I wondered.

I had had a similar experience yesterday, I remembered suddenly. John had kissed me, and my face had felt hot. Interesting. Was it something about physical contact that inspired psychosomatic sensations? I considered this. It seemed unlikely. Granted, my experience with touching other people was minimal, but I had never noticed any such correlation before when shaking hands or expressing a similar mode of greeting. Hand-to-hand combat caused one to feel hotter, but that was a direct result of muscle respiration and expenditure of energy. So it seemed that the strange wash of heat that kept assaulting me was a result of the kiss and the recollection thereof.

There was a simple enough way to test that hypothesis. I settled back into my chair (white-plastic-uncomfortable-designed-to-make-visitors-leave), closed my eyes, and replayed the memory.

_John leaning forward, coloring, embarrassed, disgruntled, his lips soft, pliable, roughened slightly by exposure to sun. His mouth moving against mine, even as his hands pulled me against him. Pulse racing, leaning into it -_

My eyes burst open. It took but a moment to make preliminary observations: shallow breathing and an accelerated pulse were obvious. This certainly confirmed my initial supposition - the memory of John's touch was enough to simulate a physical response. It also seemed to suggest an explanation. Rising, I moved hastily to the dark window, looking over my reflection in the glass.

As I had suspected, my pupils were dilated, though they were even now returning to normal. Exhaling slowly, I turned back around, facing the hospital bed, and leaned against the window sill, letting the cool glass press against my back. There were but two reasons I was aware of for one's person to experience a heightened pulse rate, breathiness, and pupil dilation all simultaneously. Fear was definitely not the reason in this case.

_So _that _was what physical desire felt like_, I thought faintly. _How curious._

I traced the outline of John's face against his pillow with my eyes. He appeared healthier than he had earlier, but there was still something drawn-looking about his features. A different sensation spread across my middle - was that _protectiveness_? If I didn't find a way to remove myself from the situation quickly, I would get in over my head. With a sense of deep unease, Mycroft's words came back to me. I felt now perhaps I understood better his intimation.

_Have fun 'not being involved'._

_Oh, bugger._


	7. The Gambit

I swear I have a legitimate excuse this time: I graduated, and then was in Japan for two weeks. So sorry about the hiatus, but I'm back, and with a bit of a longer chapter for you all...

* * *

The Gambit

**JOHN WATSON**

Upon waking, John was confused, disoriented by the brightness that was definitely not his room on Elvanston Street. Then it came flooding back to him in a sickening wave: Moriarty, Mary, Sherlock, _poison_ -

He sat up abruptly, pulling the needle from his wrist. He was a doctor and knew full well the nasty side effects that overexposure to Dimercaprol could have. He was also mildly disappointed to find that Sherlock was not sitting with him, before laughing mentally at his folly. The detective probably went back to the flat as soon as the ambulance had dropped them off instead of hanging around like he cared. He couldn't "logically" help by staying, after all.

That was before John heard Sherlock's voice on the other side of the door.

"I don't care what your visiting hours are - I told you I'm going in there!"

"You were in there all night," a nurse argued irritably. "Go home. He's not dying."

Generally, John would have been horrified by the nurse's bedside manner, but in this case recognized that Sherlock was probably a difficult, argumentative exception to Bart's rules of etiquette.

The doorknob turned, and John flopped back down against the pillow, feigning sleep. Two pairs of footsteps entered; the nurse fiddled with the instruments, set a glass on the side table, and exited with a long-suffering sigh. Sherlock, it sounded like, was standing right at the foot of the hospital bed, and John could only too well imagine the calculating look on the detective's face.

When the door swung shut behind the hospital trainee, Sherlock said, "It's nice to see you up."

With a small groan, John opened his eyes and sat himself back up.

"How'd you know I was awake?" he asked, rubbing his eyes. "The needle?"

"Besides the movement of your eyes behind the lids, changes in facial expression, sheets rumpled by movement, and forced deep breathing, yes, the dislodging of the IV was the most obvious indicator. You don't care for Dimercaprol?"

"Yeah, I'm not too thrilled about the idea of hypertension, myself," the doctor replied.

Sherlock chuckled, and then glanced at the door.

"Er," he cleared his throat. "How much of that did you overhear?"

"Not much," John said casually. "Just something about you having been here all night."

"Ah."

"So, were you?" John leaned forward, trying to keep his face from registering too much interest. "Here all night, I mean."

The detective cleared his throat again. "Yes."

"Even though you knew I would recover?"

"Well, I was... going to prevent Moriarty from trying to finish the job." It rather sounded as though Sherlock were floundering for an answer, and John didn't believe a word of it.

"You were worried!" he said with a triumphant grin.

Sherlock had the grace to look politely skeptical. "Me? Worried? You flatter yourself."

"You were," John insisted.

The detective raised his eyebrows. "You sound awfully sure of that."

John's smile faltered. "I thought, when I woke up and you weren't here, that you had left," he confessed.

Sherlock appeared genuinely puzzled. "Why would I have done that?"

"Well..." John was regretting having brought it up, even as he searched for an honest answer that didn't sound pathetically childish. "I suppose that you don't generally indulge in expressions of... concern."

An expression the doctor failed to place came over Sherlock's face. "Isn't it a human reaction to be concerned when one's best friend is poisoned?"

Feeling that he was skirting some abyss of uncharted territory, John nodded and slid forward on the hospital bed.

"Yes," he said slowly, "it is, but again, your tolerance for reactions bordering on 'human' is generally non-existent."

Sherlock's countenance turned, if it were possible, even stranger. "And you think that I would not be distressed by your loss." It was not phrased as a question, though there was a crease between his eyebrows that wrote confusion into the sentence.

"It's not _that_," John contended, though internally he wasn't entirely sure Sherlock would miss him in dying, either. "I was acutely poisoned by arsenic. Left untreated, yes, it would have been life-threatening, but you called an ambulance and knew I was going to recover. So I suppose I am surprised that, when there was no doubt of my being alright, you troubled yourself to be concerned."

"You would have been concerned if it were me."

John shook his head, not because it was untrue, but because it was utterly unlike the detective to say as much. "What's gotten into you? What happened to 'so much for this caring lark'? Has someone _died_? Is something going on that you're not _telling_ me?"

Sherlock behaved even more oddly, then. His chin snapped down so that he met John's eyes directly, sidestepped the bed, and came to a halt right next to John. He took the doctor by the shoulders and turned him ninety degrees, staring him right in the face. John dimly registered his pulse flutter under the detective's strong grip. Time stood suspended as Sherlock's face hovered a mere inch from John's own.

"Uh, Sherlock?" John murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "What are you doing?"

With a snap that was almost audible, time sprang back into motion. Some impenetrable barrier in the detective's eyes slammed back into place and he turned around with as little warning as he had given when he had stepped forward.

His back very much to John, he spoke in a clipped, impartial voice far nearer his normal tones. "My analysis confirms what the instruments are showing; you are physically recovered from the ordeal, and time is ticking. I advise you get dressed, and then we can be off."

John's brow folded. "We can't just _leave_ \- there's paperwork to fill out, and -"

Sherlock waved him down. "I took care of it earlier."

"Don't you need to know my medical history for that?"

"Do you have a point?"

Sighing, the doctor swung his legs out of bed. "I suppose not."

Sherlock handed John his clothes from the day before and guarded the door to the over-small bathroom while his flatmate changed out of the cheap paper hospital gown. He started with the pants, wondering idly to himself about why the medical industry couldn't bother giving their patients a pair of trousers. Feeling rather more like himself, the blonde man pulled a sand-colored jumper on over his undershirt and strode out to where Sherlock was impatiently plugging search words into his mobile.

"No new crimes today that appear to follow Moriarty's line of business. It would seem that he's expecting us. Let's not disappoint."

"So - Rainham Marshes?" John asked as they stepped out into the hallway. Sherlock took the lead, following the exit signs, not to the front door but to the fire escape.

"Catch," he said, turning to John and tossing him his gun.

The doctor caught it, but frowned at Sherlock. "Don't you think you ought to have one, too?" he asked, looking skeptically at the detective.

Sherlock pulled an identical gun from the opposite pocket of his coat. "I already thought of that." Then he pressed his hand against the door to the fire exit.

"Isn't that going to -" John began, but the door opened and the alarm failed to sound.

"I already thought of that, too," Sherlock said, stepping lightly onto the fire escape. He threw his arm out as John made to follow him, staring up the side of the building.

"Your convalescence had an additional purpose beyond acting as a scare tactic," the detective explained. "Moriarty knows that you, and therefore we, were forced to spend the night here. Thus, we also have to leave this place in order to come after him. He'll have hijacked the CCTV cameras in order to watch for us." Sherlock pressed his back to the brick wall. "Walk only where I walk," he instructed. "And hurry."

Nimbly, the detective climbed over the railing and dropped onto the garbage bin below. John hastened to follow, glancing nervously at the roof above them. It took him longer than Sherlock to pick out the small white camera trained down on the alley, but once he did, it was obvious that Sherlock's choice of exit was in one of the only blind spots provided them. He shivered slightly as he fell next to where Sherlock was waiting for him; now that he was aware of it, the sense of being watched made his neck tingle unpleasantly.

"This way," Sherlock said quietly, walking further into the alley instead of out of it. John considered asking him why, but thought better of it. A minute later, his question was answered for him when Sherlock stopped at a small wooden door into the neighboring building. Waving the doctor in, Sherlock showed him through the dingy bar and out the other side, blinking, into the bright morning sunlight on a busy London street.

John hailed a cab, and having determined that the cabbie was neither Moriarty nor one of his henchmen, Sherlock instructed the driver in a roundabout means of arriving at Rainham.

The drive took considerably longer than the standard half hour, given the combination of rush hour traffic and Sherlock's eagerness to remain incognito, and it was only after a not-insubstantial number of traffic loops, U-turns, and back alleys that the cab at last came to rest, not in the parking lot, but as per Sherlock's directions down a service track off the main road and concealed by the meager cover of a train shed. John profusely thanked a very befuddled cabbie even as Sherlock surveyed the landscape, mentally mapping a course through the reserve. As the car pulled away, the detective gestured at the expanse before them.

"You can see why it's an ideal hideout, really," he said. "All this grass? Scarcely a tree in sight? There's nearly no way to approach the old military compound unseen."

"Nearly?" John repeated, squinting at the sea of yellow-brown marsh grass spread before them.

"The marsh is not actually flat," the dark haired man explained. "There are rises and divots. All we have to do is stay close enough to the ground that the grass and shape of the land hide us from view."

"Oh," John said, with a snort and a nod. "Great. And, uh, just how far is the compound from here?"

"Oh, only about a kilometer," replied the detective, crouching low to the ground and sliding sidelong in amongst the vegetation. John could hear the mud sucking at Sherlock's boots from where he was standing. "Maybe two," Sherlock conceded. "Definitely not more than three - it depends on our route."

"Great," John muttered again, squatting to join his companion. As he stepped off the gravel track and into the marsh, he curled his lip at the stench. "I wish I had boots at least."

"I told you to wear boots," said Sherlock, foraying deeper into the grass.

"When?"

"This morning."

"No you didn't!"

Sherlock paused. "I did, at right about 12:15."

"You mean at midnight while I was still medicated and sleeping?"

"It's not my fault you weren't paying attention."

John did not even deign to grace that with an answer, turning his attention instead to the tedious business of moving through the marsh. Sherlock insisted that they remain at all times crouched below the height of the grass so that they would remain invisible to the guards Moriarty would doubtless have, out of sight of sniper scopes and binocular lenses. He likewise insisted that they move only when the wind was blowing such that the rustling of the grass would not be obviously out of place. John was forcibly reminded of several memorable occasions in Afghanistan that had been similar, and wasn't sure if the comparison was a good thing or not.

After an hour spent mostly waiting for the gentle summer breeze to pick up, getting bitten by mosquitoes as his trainers sank deeper into the muck, John could have screamed with aggravation. They couldn't even _see_ the compound yet, so what was Sherlock so bloody worried about? He was about to say as much (possibly with a stronger expletive in place of "bloody") when Sherlock, with unerring precision, turned around and clamped his hand over the doctor's mouth. The detective raised a finger to his lips and glanced meaningfully to his left.

John turned his head a fraction of an inch; at first, he saw nothing but grass, but then, like the man who finally sees the forest through the trees, he understood, breath catching against Sherlock's fingers.

Not twenty feet from where they were waiting, just barely visible through the gaps and breaks in the grass, was a pair of thick rubber boots, above which was a pair of trousers, which connected, presumably, though he could not see from his vantage point, to a torso and the rest of a body. Moriarty had evidently stationed his guardsmen throughout the marsh, and not just around the base. Suddenly, the wind started up again, and Sherlock took John by the wrist, leading him away from the man and marginally closer to their destination. They followed the edge of a spot where the treacherous ground deepened into a muddy lake, coming around the side of a hill and at last in sight of the old military facilities.

A high chain link fence ran all the way around the concrete building, protected across the top by barbed wire and signs warning of high voltage. As if that weren't enough, black figures carrying the silhouettes of large guns were stationed across the roof, and the marsh grass ended a solid five feet from the fence so that no one could approach it without being noticed.

"I hope you know what you're doing, Sherlock," John whispered. "Moriarty's made that place impregnable."

The detective scoffed. "There's no such thing as an impregnable building. Breaking in is a simple matter of observation."

They crept in a wide arc around the perimeter, taking shelter at the base of some scraggly trees planted on the side for a windbreak. Sherlock stared up into the leaves for a moment, smiling slightly.

"There!" John pointed. "A hole in the fence!"

There was indeed a place, just next to one of the vertical supports, where it appeared some small animal had bent the wire fencing back in digging under the compound. From the doctor's perspective, it was the first lucky break they had had all day. Sherlock, however, was shaking his head in exasperation.

"It won't work," he sighed. "Remember who we're dealing with here. Moriarty knows that that hole is there. Possibly he left it there and has it inconspicuously guarded so as to trap anyone trying to sneak in. More probably, he saved his resources and left it unguarded, trusting that the 10,000 volts of electricity running through the fence will be more than enough to paralyze anyone stupid enough to try to squeeze through it."

"Oh," John said, feeling a bit foolish. "Of course." He considered this a moment. "Is there any way to cut the power?"

The dark haired man smirked. "I already dismissed the idea. The fuse box won't be in any way accessible from the outside. No, we need another way in."

"Such as?"

The smirk widened. "This."

There was a crunching noise to their left, even as a shot rang out on the other side of the compound. The rooftop guards spun around, looking for the source of the gunfire, and Sherlock dove into the grass next to them. There was a muffled shout; John lunged over himself and found the detective very neatly stripping the uniform from an unconscious guard.

"Child's play," Sherlock grinned, looking up.

"How did you manage that?" asked an astonished doctor.

"It was simple." Something about his false modesty begged admiration, something that in this case John was only too happy to give. "The position of the sun puts the time at almost 1:00. Moriarty will want to keep his guards fresh, so he'll have them trade positions hourly. I knew that the men out on the marsh would be returning soon, and that it would be easy to overpower one. With this uniform, we can get in through the gate. I also knew, though, that the men on the roof had to be distracted, else they would have seen this one disappear into the grass. Rainham is famous not just as a nature reserve but as a bird sanctuary. When we arrived, there were some game birds sitting in the tree back there. Our presence startled them, and they took off. You would get bored standing and watching a marsh for an hour; it stands to reason that the guards would be likewise looking for stimulus and be without enough moral principle to stop them shooting at a good-sized pheasant in a reserve area. Instant diversion."

"That was brilliant."

Sherlock pulled the uniform on over his shirt. "You might be less enthused after I explain the next phase."

"Which is?"

"A contemporary interpretation of the Trojan Horse. I trust you can manage that much, soldier."

"Which of us is Achilles?" the blonde man asked, eyebrow raised.

"The way _The Iliad_ ends? Hopefully neither of us. No, you get to play the Horse."

Sherlock grabbed a nonplussed John around the middle and pulled him to his feet. Casually, in full sight of the guards who had by this time returned to their stations, he turned John around and crossed his wrists over behind his back as though binding them.

"Imagine that you're handcuffed and follow my lead," the detective murmured, slinging the unconscious gunman's semi-automatic over his shoulder. Sherlock, now disguised as one of the compound guards, led the doctor around the far side of the building to where a pair of men in identical uniforms were in the midst of locking a large gate.

"Sommers. It's about time you got here," said the one on the left. "What kept you?"

"Yeah, and who's this?" asked the other.

"Found him sneaking 'round out on the east side." Sherlock adopted an American Texas drawl; the guards looked on passively, so evidently the detective had determined the correct background and voice of the deposed mercenary just by looking at him, though John could not imagine which details spelled it out so plainly to Sherlock's eye. "_He_ says he was havin' hisself a look at the local wildlife, but I thought the boss might wanna have a little chat with him 'bout why he was looking for it o'er here."

John tried fervently to look as though he were distinctly nervous about the possibility of an interrogation; as it happened, it was not particularly difficult to manage "nervous" just then. His hands he kept carefully clapped behind him at the wrist.

"Go on, then. Take him through," the stockier of the two guards said. "But don't be late tomorrow or you're gonna regret it."

Sherlock nodded and pushed John roughly through the gate and towards the door. As he passed, he was certain the guards were turning to watch him go.

"Hey, wait a second!" the first guard called, following after them. "He weren't wearing no cuffs, was he?"

"Don't give them time to scream," Sherlock whispered. Then as one, the pair spun around, securing their hands over the mouths of the hired men. What followed was a brief but intense struggle. Sherlock, calculating his opponent's actions before he made them, took the man down with superhuman ease, striking him first in the neck before clapping his hands hard on the man's temples while simultaneously dodging an uppercut and a kick aimed at his groin. John, having tackled the larger of the two guards and lacking the detective's ability to analyze muscle tension and eye movement, took a bit of a beating to his head and chest before he succeeded in knocking the man out with a well-timed blow from the butt of his gun.

Standing, John wiped a dribble of blood from his chin. "Right, where to next?" he asked. The dark-haired detective was pulling the bodies into the shade of the awning above the door, and likewise disposing of his stolen uniform. He checked the safety on his handgun (the semi-automatic he dropped, but not without first removing the ammunition) and peered around at the surrounding environment.

"I think it's best if we split up," he announced. "It's hard for two people to travel together unseen. We can also cover more ground that way, and if one of us gets caught -"

"-Then the other can get him out," John finished with a nod. "Yes, I see. I'll take that way, yeah?" He pointed down the track to their right.

"Yes. Good," Sherlock said. "If you find anything, text me."

"Same to you," replied John. "Or if you get into trouble."

It was only when the doctor looked up that he realized Sherlock was already gone.

Shaking his head, John shuffled slowly forward, his gun cocked and in hand. The old military base was showing its age. The white concrete was stained red-orange with rust, and cracks fragmented the pavement. All the windows were boarded up, some with iron bars over them as well. The fencing, on the other hand, looked to have been just recently replaced. Moriarty must have had it installed, he realized. How could the reserve officials not know the psychopath was there? Maybe he was blackmailing them.

A sound from above sent the blonde man pressing his back against the wall. A piece of gravel fell from the roof as a guard stood with his toes flush to the flat edge. A moment later, the man moved on, and John allowed himself to exhale. There was no one else in sight.

There were, he discovered, actually a number of smaller buildings making up the complex. There was the one he stood next to, as well as perhaps three others of the same size that together ringed a short central tower. In the paths between buildings were stacked crates long since emptied of their goods and dumpsters full of rubble. Hearing footsteps, John ducked behind one of the latter, sheltering next to a pile of dusty old bricks.

A small squad of hired men, wearing the same black uniforms as the others, marched past. How many guards were there? He had seen three on the roof, five more had just passed him by, and there could be any number of them inside the buildings or elsewise concealed somewhere in the landscape. John put his worry temporarily out of mind - he was there to find Moriarty, and that was what he needed to focus on. The guards he could handle as they became a problem.

It seemed logical to assume that the criminal mastermind would be waiting in the most defensible position, which in this case would put him at the top of the central tower. Part of John longed to run there as fast as his legs would carry him and blow the man's brains out for real, but he also knew that he wouldn't make it two yards past the nearest building before he was gunned down himself. Moreover, the second he shot Moriarty, every guard within hearing range would come running. He needed a way out. For that, he needed information - what were the odds that there was a map of the base tacked up somewhere?

He came upon the end of the second building; there was a steel door in the side that the doctor went to go investigate. It was unlocked, a fact that immediately put John on his guard, but when he stepped into the dingy front room he saw no one. In all likelihood, he reasoned, Moriarty's men saw no need to lock their doors when supposedly the base was secure.

The front room, a small space with racks for coats and boots, opened into a dank kitchenette. Dilapidated cupboards clung to the walls, and a rusty sink sat overflowing with greasy dishes. On the cards table was a half-played game of poker and an empty tea cup. _Where had they all gone?_

Cautiously, John pushed open the door to the next room, in which there were a number of monitors displaying feed from various security cameras around the base. One of the feeds showed the compound's front gate; suddenly, it occurred to John to wonder if there might have been a different reason the door was unlocked, if maybe the gunmen had been in a hurry when they left and forgot to latch it, if maybe they had seen something distressing on the screen and gone to investigate.

"Shit," John whispered. Hurriedly, he pulled his phone from his pocket and punched in Lestrade's number.

_1:23 pm  
Me and SH found JM's hideout: old base at Rainham. Send backup ASAP. - JW_

As soon as the text was delivered, the doctor pulled up his texts to Sherlock.

_1:24 pm  
I think they know we're here. Find anything yet? - JW_

No sooner had the message sent than John heard the sound of a door opening. A hasty glance back at the screens showed a group of three men disappearing into the front of the building.

_Bugger_, he thought to himself. From outside the monitor room, there came voices, and the sound of someone clinking poker chips together.

"Damn. I dunno where they got off to, but you shoulda seen the number they did on Corbin and Jack."

"I _did_ see it, you bastard. I was right behind you."

"Watch who you're callin' a bastard - it's your fault we didn't catch 'em, not mine."

"My fault?!" the first voice exploded. "I didn't make your arse slow. That's your own damn fault!"

"But if you hadn't -"

"Oi!" a third voice interrupted. "I hate to interrupt your little cat fight, but do either of you blokes remember that door bein' open when we left?"

John could practically hear three heads turn to stare at the door in front of him, which he had, in his hurry, left ajar. Aware that he had no more than thirty seconds to hide somewhere in the small room before he was caught, he looked first left, then right. His phone buzzed in his hand, but he ignored it. Sherlock's text wouldn't matter if he ended up with a gun pressed to his temple.

There was a small cable closet in the corner. John pushed the door open, wincing as it creaked ever so slightly, and shut himself inside, having to crouch underneath a shelf in order to fit. He had barely closed the closet shut in front of him before the monitor room door opened and three sets of footsteps entered.

"Damn. I'd have sworn we shut it, but there ain't nobody here," said one voice.

"Maybe they left," suggested a second.

"Maybe..." the third voice said, sounding unconvinced, "but check around anyway."

John quietly repositioned himself so he could use his phone. Flicking it open, listening hard to the sound of the room outside being searched, John first read the reply from Sherlock, then tried not to blanch as what he read turned his blood cold.

_1:25 pm  
Sorry Johnny-boy. Sherlock can't come to the phone right now. He's a bit tied up in the proceedings. - JM_

Immediately, John switched to Lestrade.

_1:27 pm  
SOS. SH cght. Probly abt 2 go sm wy. HURRY. - JW_

The instant John pressed "send", he reached behind him and buried his phone under a pile of cables. He finished hiding the mobile just in time to hear, "- checked the closet yet?"

"Aw, come on," chortled the other man. "These tossers ain't exactly MI6, are they? He's not gonna be hiding in the bloody _closet_." So saying, he whipped open the door and had precisely half a second to gape in astonishment at the blonde man before John punched him as hard as he could in the nose and ran.

The other two were also staring in shock, and for that reason, John made it out of the room alive. It was as he was crossing the kitchen that the shots started. A smattering of bullets shattered the kitchen window, and another crashed through the tea cup. John swung into the entryway as bullets pounded the floor behind him.

Barreling into the steel door, John flew out into the sunlight. Squinting against the glare, he made it all the way down to the end of the next building before a squad of five men stepped around the corner, pointing five guns at his chest. The doctor spun around to discover that the other three had caught up with him and had recovered from their surprise. They too were pointing large firearms at places where John would prefer to not have holes.

"Put your hands where we can see them," ordered the gunman at the head of the squad.

Realizing he couldn't win against those odds, John conceded defeat and raised his hands to shoulder level. A guard came up behind him, and, grabbing his hands roughly, fastened handcuffs around his wrists. As the same guard steered him around to face the tower, John silently begged Lestrade to check his damn phone.

Then the guard told him to start walking, and John, straight-backed and head held high, began walking to the heart of the spider's web.

* * *

**SHERLOCK HOLMES  
Simultaneously**

The moment I split from John, I made directly for the central tower. Moriarty would be there - it was the only logical place to await our coming. It would not be inconceivable that he hide in a fortified basement below the compound, but that gave me the advantage of height, and my opponent would not give me any advantage he could keep for himself. Thus, the most plausible scenario was that the consulting criminal was comfortably ensconced in the highest chamber, undoubtedly with a dozen gunmen between him and the ground floor. Moran was sure to be nearby as well; no matter what I did to gain entrance, I was risking a little red laser sighter finding my person.

The tower held the appearance of a granary (round-and-two-stories-with-a-third-capped-by-a-metal-dome), but I knew it actually held a control-center-in-the-shaft-with-a-missile-launch-system-built-to-fire-through-a-retractable-space-in-the-roof. Wrapped like a second skin around the circumference of the lower two thirds of the building was a new-so-just-installed-by-Moriarty's-purchase-steel-chain-link-fence.

I could not see the danger-10,000-volt-electric-wire threaded through the fencing from my vantage point, and there was a clever-trap-absence of danger-high-voltage-signs, but the green lights were glowing at the top of the fence. If the electricity were off, the lights would be off as well. This particular model flashed red for ten seconds when the power reconnected, so as to warn people in the vicinity to get out of the way. Green meant it was active. I would have to remedy that.

It was not difficult to steal across the muddy expanse between the smaller building and the tower without notice. Perhaps other, less observant individuals might have found it a trial, but really one just had to compute the exact length and relative darkness of the shadows provided by the assorted crates-garbage-refuse left scattered in piles around the compound and move accordingly. And once I was next to the missile tower, it only became more obvious what I had to do.

I could not enter the missile tower without getting plugged full of lead by Moriarty's guards. That left me the single option of bypassing all the hired men by going up a different route. The only available detour was to ascend via the fence, which ended three feet below the uppermost windows. In order to touch the fence without risking (at best) temporary paralysis, I had to shut the current down. To do _that_, I had to follow the wires around to their source. Simple.

Now that I was right next to it, I could of course see the hair-thin wire that had been woven through the chain link. I could also see that it spiraled up the fence toward the right. To turn it off, I had to follow it as it spiraled down on the left until I found the charger.

This I did, keeping a weather eye out for anyone who might see me. There were a handful of guards on the far side of the buildings patrolling the perimeter, but no one so much as looked my way and I found the small electrical shed without trouble. The door was padlocked shut, an obstacle which a minute spent examining the wear on the lock was able to remove (combination: 36-14-3; the paint on the 36 was most worn, while the 14 was least abused as people cycled to it smoothly. The 3 had scrapes in the paint, a result characteristic of people digging their nails into the number and wrenching the lock open), and inside, I found exactly what I was looking for.

A small yellow charger sat plugged into the wall (new-state-of-the-art-capable-of-delivering-up-to-50,000-volts-which-at-the-level-of-current-provided-would-make-a-man-black-out), reading out a present charge of 10,000 volts. That was twice what was found in a TASER gun, but a smaller range of electrical current delivery made it non-lethal. Moriarty didn't want to kill his visitors - he wanted to stun them, interrogate them painfully, and then kill them. I snorted to myself as I ripped the charger out of the wall socket. Behind me was a monitor displaying a camera view of the front half of the lot. John was nowhere in sight; good.

Smiling to myself, I slipped back outside and reattached the padlock. The green lights that warned passerby of the electrical danger were now out. I plucked a piece of damp grass from the ground and allowed a drop of water to fall onto the wire. When nothing happened, I laid a hand tentatively against the chain link. Nothing. Not so much as a faint tingle.

Satisfied, I moved along the wall until I came to a place on the other side below a window. Then I closed my hand around the fence and started to climb.

* * *

**JIM MORIARTY**

I was practically dozing. The domed ceiling trapped in the summer heat and made it dreadfully stuffy. The plastic chair I was sitting in was going wreak wrinkly havoc on the fabric of my suit. On top of that, I was hideously bored.

Three hours ago, I had received word from my informants that Sherlock Holmes had checked John Watson out of the hospital. The only natural deduction was that they would come immediately here. No matter the fact that the security cameras in the hospital never showed them leave - this was Sherlock Holmes. Of course he knew I would see the camera feed. I also knew that he had collected a soil sample from the boot of the mercenary who shot Larkin's wife, and that having analyzed it, he would come here with his pet dog as quickly as they could.

I could have left, knowing that I was found out. But that would defeat the purpose.

This was more fun.

Or at least, it would be when Sherlock finally showed up. I would punish him for being late.

I was just considering the myriad possibilities that idea offered when there was a sharp knock at the door.

"What is it, Moran?" I asked, twirling an imaginary cocktail between my fingers. "Did you make me that drink?"

The door opened and Moran entered, looking less sheepish than I would have expected for an internationally acclaimed sniper reduced to mixing Shirley Temples in the kitchenette.

"In a minute, sir," he said. "Someone just cut the power to the tower fence!"

A Cheshire Cat grin spread across my face and I sat up in my chair.

"Finally," I breathed. "Go turn the power back on. Put it up to 50,000 volts."

"But -" Moran looked pitifully confused. "Shouldn't I be looking for the intruder?"

I sighed, walking with measured slowness to where the muscular man was standing in the door frame. I let my hand rest lightly on his thigh; he shuddered faintly at my touch (though from pleasure or terror it was hard to say).

"Oh, Sebastian," I murmured softly. "You're such an idiot sometimes. If you turn the power back on now, then you can go look for the unconscious body in the mud. You see?"

"Of course," Moran muttered, texting one of his underlings my order to fix the electricity.

"Good," I said smoothly, drawing him closer to me. He was stronger by far, and carrying a large gun, but it wasn't _my_ forehead beading with nervous sweat. "I wouldn't want to have a repeat of last week's episode."

Moran rubbed the back of his unconsciously; I knew the marks of my displeasure were still visible six days later.

"No, sir. Of course not."

Like that, I released him, waving him back to his other duties.

"Take care of it, Sebastian," I said. "I want Sherlock Holmes and his pet doctor captured and alive as soon as you have them. _Alive._ Anyone who kills them takes their place tonight - pass that on for me."

"Of course, sir."

Moran closed the door, and I was left alone again, though not for long. My searing boredom had been replaced by undiluted excitement. This chess match was now rapidly approaching endgame, and the wait was over.

It was time to play.

* * *

**SHERLOCK HOLMES**

I was half the way up the wall and doing well, though the size of the chain link made the going slower than I should have liked. A guard passed directly below me, heading around to the other side of the tower, but he never so much as glanced in my direction. People rarely think to look up.

When he had passed, I made it a few more feet before I noticed, in my peripheral vision, a sort of blinking above me. Turning my chin towards the sky, I saw that the warning lights were now flashing red - someone (probably that oblivious guard) had turned the electricity back on.

Time seemed to pass more slowly as my brain sped up its processing systems. I had exactly ten seconds before the lights turned green and the wire electrified. I could not climb the rest of the way in ten seconds. I could not climb down in ten seconds. Scanning the ground beneath me, I noted a dying shrub to my right by about four feet. It would provide enough of a break that I wouldn't hurt myself badly if I could make it in time and jump.

_Ten..._

I shuffled right as fast as my long legs would allow and began climbing down.

_Five..._

I was still about ten feet off the ground. No matter how I did it, landing was going to leave some marks.

_Two..._

I looked beneath me again, checking my alignment with the sad-looking bush. Once I let go, I would have no way to adjust my fall, and I _had_ to land clear of the fence.

_One..._

I tensed my legs and let myself fall backwards, just in time. Entropy, however, chose that moment to assert itself on an otherwise-perfect plan, and my weight dragged my left boot lace into a chink in the chain link as I fell past it. A millisecond later, it popped with a twang from its place, but by then my fall trajectory had already been altered a fraction of a degree by the change in swing. The alteration was just enough to allow my left hand to brush against the chain link, which was likewise just enough to send 50,000 volts of electricity racing up my arm.

When I hit the bush, I didn't feel it. Instead, I felt like every square inch of skin was being pressed by a hundred needles. I tried everything my mental faculties could think of to ward off unconsciousness, but the current had scrambled the natural flow of electricity between nerves and I couldn't so much as twitch my fingers, much less stand up and dust myself off. The buzzing sensation felt vaguely more concentrated by my waist; I realized it was my phone going off with a text. That would be John, presumably with news.

My final thought, as darkness chewed at the edges of my vision, was a prayer to whatever God John believed in.

_Please let him be alright, _I asked no one and everyone.

Then the world around me spun into a whirlpool of black, and for a long time, I knew no more.


	8. Trouble in Paradise

Here it is, ladies and gentlemen. Yes, I really did devise a +40,000 word plot so that I would have an excuse to write this chapter. THIS is why this story is M rated (there'll be some other things later, too). Non-consensual Moriarty/John, angst, and Johnlock. I'm not entirely happy with a couple of things, but figured I'd post it anyway and get some feedback. Have fun.

FYI: if you're like me and randomly associate songs with completely unrelated fandoms, then consider the unofficial soundtrack of this chapter, at least from Sherlock's POV, to be El Tango de Roxanne from Moulin Rouge.

* * *

Trouble in Paradise

**SHERLOCK HOLMES**

When I opened my eyes, everything was dark. I mean, obviously the blindfold made everything _appear_ dark, but rolling my eyes as far up as I was able and as far down, I could make out a deep grayness past the edges of the fabric that suggested a time of day either just after sunset or just before sunrise. There was a fierce pounding in my head, a by-product of electrocution, although the continuing pins-and-needles sensation in my arms appeared to be a result of the position in which my hands were chained: tightly behind me, and just beneath my shoulders.

With the edge of my thumb, I could feel an iron chain running from the handcuffs upwards, presumably tethering me to the metal pole against which I was leaning. In the air, there was a faint smell of rust and gunpowder; coupled with the floorboards, the give of which told me there was empty air and not concrete beneath, everything indicated that I was being imprisoned in the top of the tower.

I had been stripped of my coat and scarf, my gun, and as I also lacked the slight weight in my pocket, I concluded that my phone had been taken as well.

Listening carefully, I detected two distinct breathing patterns besides my own. There was no other noise discernible from the room's occupants - ergo, they must both have been seated, else the floor would have creaked when they shifted their weight. Moreover, they were awake - their breathing was too fast for sleeping people. What that meant for me depended on who they were, something I could not determine yet, given the limited data.

"Good morning, sunshine." Moriarty's sing-song voice came from my left. That was half the equation solved, then. "Or should I say 'good evening'?" The madman mimicked a Draculian accent on that last, and allowed himself a brief chuckle before continuing. "It's almost 9:00. I was getting afraid that you were going to sleep all night. That would have been very boring. And you know I don't like boring."

"Well, I'm awake now," I said calmly. "Although if you hadn't increased the voltage of the fence I wouldn't have passed out at all."

"Sorry, Sherlock, my dear," said Moriarty with false contrition. "But I couldn't take any chances with you."

"So now you've got me," I said, my voice conveying how deeply unimpressed I was. "Congratulations. What happens next? You stand there and gloat for a while?"

My equal and opposite stepped forward by a couple of paces; I knew when he crouched down in front of me, though with the blindfold, I couldn't see him.

"I could," he said quietly. "But everything I have to say has already crossed your mind."

A smirk tugged at the corner of my lips. "It didn't work out for you the last time you said that."

I could hear the smirk mirrored on Moriarty's face when he replied, "Last time, you had Johnny-boy's gun."

"I had John's gun today, too," I pointed out. "Call it a good luck charm."

"You mean this gun?"

And then there it was, a cold metal cylinder pressed to my forehead.

"I saw that you had one, of course," Moriarty continued dismissively, "but it only _looked_ like John's. Your pet was good enough to let me borrow his."

It was not a lie. I had long since memorized that gun's every detail, after innumerable cases where it had saved both our lives, and my recent purchase, though in other ways identical, lacked the faint-scratches-along-the-barrel that came with time and unconventional forms of use. I could feel the difference; it could only be my friend's weapon in Moriarty's hand.

"And how," I began conversationally, though my mouth was dry, "did you happen to come across John's gun?"

"Well, it's very simple, really," Moriarty said. "Like this."

He reached around behind my head and whipped the blindfold off my face. It took my eyes a second to focus with the absence of light, but I already understood what I was going to see.

On a chair set five feet in front of me was the room's other occupant. He too was blindfolded, and a fabric gag was wrapped tightly around his mouth. Though there were no signs that he was actually restrained in the chair, his hands were positioned behind him like his wrists were bound. As I looked at John Watson, I felt my last reserve of hope evaporate like mist in a dry wind.

Moriarty stood up, polishing the end of the Browning's with his suit coat.

"Now that you're finally awake to enjoy it, I'm going to shoot you," he said. He pointed the small firearm at me. "Any last words?"

I gave this all the consideration it was due.

"Your suit is wrinkled."

Moriarty's eyes narrowed. He cocked the gun; I heard John try to shout something that might have been "Sherlock!", and then Moriarty pulled the trigger.

* * *

**JOHN WATSON  
Earlier**

An enormous man with a sniper rifle strapped to his back met them at the door of the tower.

"Look at what the cats dragged in," he sneered, clapping John hard on the back. "I know someone who's going to be just _thrilled_ to see you."

The squad captain stepped forward, prodding John across the threshold with his gun. To the other man, he said, "Moran. The security tapes show him and the other one coming in through the gate. Apparently, they took down Corbin and Jack right as they were locking up."

Moran snorted. "When we finish here, go give them both the cessation of employment announcement. Then put a phone in to the Japanese yakuza to come call-collect."

"What about the other one?" the guard asked. "The detective?"

"Already taken care of," Moran grinned through his teeth. "I'll bring this one up myself. Make sure that if any of their little friends in the LPD show up to rescue them that they don't make it past the fence, or I'll personally discharge you with a bullet in the brain."

"Understood."

John was led into the tower and up two flights of stairs to the top. There was a window facing each of the cardinal directions; three of these were boarded up, but the North window had been stripped of wooden planks to allow some light and air to enter. It was all one large room, the domed roof supported in places by metal poles. In the center was a pile of old machinery left over from the base's military past that John recognized as an archaic missile launch system.

The sniper pushed John forward again, and, taking the cue, the doctor stepped forward, turning around the old machinery. On the other side was a plastic folding chair set across from another vertical support, against which was slumped -

"Sherlock!" John gasped. Moran caught him as he made for his friend, pushing him into the chair.

"Sit," Moran growled. "I've got a job to do, and you're going to let me do it, or else I'm going to shoot him."

John did not rise from his chair but glowered at the sniper. "Your boss won't be happy if you shoot Sherlock before he's had his say."

"I didn't say I would be shooting to kill. But I bet he won't be too comfy with an extra hole in his foot."

Moran first pocketed John's gun, then looked up in annoyance. "What did you do with your phone?"

"My phone?" John asked, as though confused by the question.

"Yeah, your mobile," the other man replied, scowling. "I'm told by a very reliable source that you have one."

"You're not going to find it," said the doctor, praying it was true. "I threw it in the marsh."

Moran stared hard at him for a moment. Finally, when John did nothing but stare back impassively, he gave a short, barking laugh and said, "Well, you've got balls, anyway. Mind you, if I find out you're lying, I can change that." John made to reply, but Moran interrupted. "Shut up."

Without ceremony, he took a strip of white cloth and stretched it taught around John's mouth, knotting the ends behind his head. The gag bit into the sides of his face, and in a couple of hours it would chafe the sensitive skin red and raw.

"Blindfold them both." The order came from behind, spoken by a voice that John recognized far too well.

"Yessir."

The doctor could feel Moriarty's cold eyes burning against the back of his neck like frozen coals. He tried not to swallow too hard as the room disappeared behind a wall of fabric. Minutes later, John heard what could only be the sound of Moran blindfolding the unconscious Sherlock.

The sniper's footsteps echoed across the floor as he returned to the door and left, turning a key in the lock. His job was finished for the moment. Silence descended, absolute and seething with anticipation. At any moment, John expected pain, and he steeled himself against it.

It therefore came as something as a shock to him when Moriarty spoke and was still standing next to the door.

"Hello there, Johnny-boy. Enjoying the accommodations?" He paused a moment, as though expecting an answer, before he said, "Oh, I forgot. You're a little verbally-challenged right now. My apologies."

There was another moment of silence before the man picked his way forwards, passing John's chair on his right.

"I have your gun, you know," he said conversationally.

John's first instinct was to reply with something to the effect of _I would have thought you had more than enough of those already_, but as soon as he went to move his lips, he remembered that he couldn't, and promptly stopped trying, hoping that Moriarty hadn't noticed the success of his baiting the blonde man. Regrettably, it appeared that he had.

"Sorry, Johnny-boy, didn't quite catch that," Moriarty half-snag, rocking back and forth on his feet so that the floor creaked underneath him. "You're going to have to _speak up_."

John just shifted in his seat, attempting to convey the depth of his disdain in the simple action of crossing one leg over the other. Perhaps he succeeded, or perhaps the criminal mastermind possessed Sherlock's skill of following one's train of thought with not-quite metaphysical accuracy, but regardless he seemed to get the gist, for he scoffed lightly and came to stand next to John.

Resting a hand on the doctor's shoulder, and with a serpentine grin to his voice, Moriarty said, "Your position must be clear even to you, Johnny. You're going to do anything I tell you, and if you do not, Sherlock is the one who will suffer for it. I'd rather not have to shoot him _now_ \- he blacked out, poor dear, and it would be so boring to hurt him while he's not awake to enjoy it - but I will if I have to, so I recommend that you stay exactly where you are, very quietly, like a good dog."

John felt his jaw clench, and he made no other indication that he was intending to listen, but he returned his legs to their original position, attempting to sit as comfortably as possible for what would doubtless be a couple of uncomfortable hours waiting for Sherlock to wake up. He thought faintly of escape; if he stood now and ran, he could probably make it to the open window twenty five feet behind him without getting shot, even blindfolded.

Of course, even if he made it that far, he still had to climb down an electric fence handcuffed and into a military base full of ruthless hired killers, not to mention leave his best friend in the hands of a murderous psychopath. Possibly Sherlock could figure a way out, but there was an unpleasant feeling in the pit of the blonde man's stomach which said that even Sherlock Holmes would be stymied by the situation they had gotten themselves into. All he could think to do was wait for Lestrade.

Right on cue, Moriarty spoke up. "I know what you told Moran, that you threw your mobile in the marsh, but I also know you're lying. You've just hidden it somewhere. I could ask you where it was, and you _would_ answer, but, actually, I don't care. I'm sure you've gone to the police, and that's fine. In fact, maybe I should even thank you. It'll keep the night interesting, giving them my personal attention after I finish with you two. Or maybe before. I daresay Sherlock would be interested in the color of the detective inspector's insides."

The madman ceased speaking then as suddenly as he had began, as if he were imagining an actual conversation in his head, and it was really just as well that he did, for John was beginning to feel sick. If Lestrade got hurt because of him, he wouldn't ever forgive himself. He didn't like Donovan, and didn't much care for Anderson, either, but that didn't mean they deserved what Moriarty would doubtless give them. For a moment, he was almost glad that he'd been gagged and blindfolded, because the fabric concealed from his captor how pale he was sure he'd just gotten.

Gradually, the doctor became aware of shifts in the light as the sky outside darkened. His muscles tingled with disuse - they begged him to stand, to stretch, to fidget, _anything_ \- but he ignored the discomfort. Once or twice, he considered sleeping, for he had no idea when he may next be given the opportunity, but decided against it, as doing so would constitute leaving both him and his flatmate unawares and at the complete mercy of their captor. Granted, the situation wasn't particularly different while he was awake, but the instinct of a man who had seen war demanded he continue his silent vigil.

When finally the room was shrouded in deep gloom, there was a nearly inaudible rustle from in front of him, which was John's only warning before, after hours of quiet, Moriarty said, "Good morning, sunshine." He kept himself from jumping, but missed the next thing the criminal said as the meaning of those three words washed over him. _Sherlock was awake. _

The dull anxiety disguised as resignation that had been simmering all afternoon flared up, transmuting into sudden, crystalline clarity. Some people found themselves incapacitated by fear. John Watson lived for it, as much as Sherlock Holmes did on proving himself clever. He did not want to be hurt, and he ached to the core for his friend's safety, but he was _not_ afraid.

"- good enough to let me borrow his," Moriarty was saying.

"And how," asked Sherlock (a thrill went through John at the sound of the detective's voice), "did you happen to come across John's gun?"

"Well, it's very simple, really. Like this."

There was a creak in the floorboards and a rustle of fabric, and then for an instant, though he could see nothing, John was positive that Sherlock was staring directly at him.

"Now that you're finally awake to enjoy it, I'm going to shoot you," said Moriarty, perfectly casual. "Any last words?"

John did not believe it. Moriarty would never go to so much trouble to get his arch nemesis where he wanted him only to shoot him straight off the bat.

"Your suit is wrinkled."

That response was so typically Sherlock that for a moment, John wanted to laugh. The irredeemable detective was, as the blonde man had once told Irene Adler, likely to outlive God trying to have the last word. So his emotions suffered an astonishing reversal an instant later when he heard Moriarty cock his gun.

_Sherlock!_

He tried to shout, aware that it would accomplish nothing, but attempting to anyway, because if there was one thing that John could never live with, it would be Sherlock dying with so many things unsaid between them. Thus, in that moment of terror that his friend was going to leave him, he tried to in that single word - a name that had turned his life around - everything he had ever wanted and been unable to say. The gag stopped him, of course. And then there was the fact that there was no answering gunshot to the sound of the trigger pulling.

For a moment, the room was thick with astonished silence. Then Moriarty began to laugh, a high, cruel sound that raised gooseflesh on the arms.

"Good!" he gasped. "Oh, _very_ good! You took the bullets out of the gun!"

"Yes, obviously," said Sherlock.

"I can't believe it," Moriarty breathed, still in the throes of hysterics. "You actually gave Johnny-boy a gun _with no ammunition in it_!"

"Of course I did. Mine was empty as well. A protective measure - we couldn't have shot one of your guards without everyone else hearing the discharge. I was just acting preemptively."

Moriarty sighed appreciatively and returned to John's side, pulling the end of the cloth preventing his coherent speech until the gag unraveled and fell to the floor.

At the same time, he said, "I had other plans for this evening, but it looks like now we'll have to cancel. I _would_ have loved to see Dr. Watson try to give you surgery blindfolded, but I suppose that's a game that will keep for later. Let's try something else." Finished removing the fabric, he prodded John in the shoulder. "You can talk now, by the way. In fact, you're welcome to scream or beg for mercy any time you want."

"Fuck off," John grunted, allowing his legs the liberty of stretching.

"Funny that you say that," the criminal said, his voice slipping an octave. "Come on, on your feet," he added, nudging the back of John's foot with his own.

Stiffly, John stood, and Moriarty pushed the chair out of the way. Then he turned to the doctor and without preamble shoved him backwards. John fell hard, wincing as he landed on his tailbone. Before he could get up again, Moriarty dropped his knee crosswise across John's legs, pinning him to the ground. In the same motion, he turned the blonde man's position so that he was in full sight of Sherlock. Then Moriarty straddled John's lap, and pressed his hand against the doctor's chest, holding him to the floor.

"What," John managed, "are you doing?"

Moriarty looked quizzically over his shoulder at the detective, who was watching events unfold with fracturing impartiality. "Is he really this dense?" the consulting criminal asked. "Do you have to remind him how to tie his trainers every morning?" Turning back to John, he traced the doctor's jawline with his thumb, saying, "I do believe your exact words were 'fuck off'. That rather settled the scenario, wouldn't you say?"

Something decidedly panic-like crept into John's stomach, and without word or warning, he jerked his leg up and kicked Moriarty as hard as he could in the crotch. The criminal mastermind rolled off of him, choking on inhalations and curses alternately, and struggled to stand up. John got up, too, not interested in remaining exposed on the floor.

"Well," Moriarty said, eyes wide in their sockets as he blinked back the automatic wetness there. "_That_ was certainly effective. Unimaginative, but effective." He settled himself with another deep breath. "You boys at least brought your B-game tonight - how flattering." Walking with exaggerated slowness, he paced back and forth. "You see, John, you've given me a bit of a conundrum now. I told you that there were consequences for disobedience, but there's no bullets in your gun, so I have to find something else." His eyes alighted on a cast-iron crowbar resting on the old machinery. A small smile spread across his features. "Oh Sherlock?" he called. "You _might_ want to stand up. Otherwise it's your ribs, and I suspect you consider breathing a priority."

"Breathing?" the detective murmured. "Breathing's boring." But he stood up anyway.

"Sherlock...?" John asked tentatively, but the detective quieted him with a soft, "Not now, John".

Moriarty hefted the crowbar, smiling thinly. "Apparently you didn't understand what I meant about 'consequences', Johnny-boy. Maybe Magnussen was right about that tee-shirt."

The criminal walked past the blonde man, stopping in front of the dark haired one. He tilted his head to the side.

"This one's from John, with love," he said. Then Moriarty swung the weighty metal bar like a baseball bat, landing it with a crack in the middle of the detective's upper leg; there was the horrible sound of splintering bone, and Sherlock's cry of agony as his leg collapsed beneath him drove through John's heart like a shard of glass.

"Oh, _God_," John whispered, not sure if Moriarty would let him run to his friend's side, even blindfolded, but the detective heard and looked up.

"Not quite," he said snarkily, though his voice was rather rougher than it usually was when he was teasing. "I think maybe I just broke something."

"Have I made my point?" Moriarty asked, depositing the crowbar well out of reach before he padded back to John. The doctor did not answer, but the slump of his shoulders answered for him. "Excellent," said the criminal cheerily. "On the ground. Now."

John could feel his resistance breaking - he couldn't let Sherlock be hurt any more because of him. Slowly, very slowly, John sank to the floor.

This time when Moriarty straddled his hips, John fought the urge to lash out, or to roll, or to do _anything_ to get away, though he saw that the effort of staying still was already driving up his breathing rate. He did not flinch when Moriarty's arm wrapped around his shoulder, nor when his other hand snaked into John's short hair, nor even when Moriarty covered his lips with his own. The doctor reclined limply, letting Moriarty force his tongue into his mouth, trying to keep control so that he didn't accidentally vomit.

There was a quiet clanking of chains to his side - Sherlock moving - and John was glad he couldn't see him. He didn't want to even consider how appalled the detective's face must look. Certainly the doctor was disgusted with himself enough already; the last thing he wanted was his friend's contempt on top of it all.

To his right, Sherlock said, "Let go of him," spitting the words through clenched teeth.

Moriarty paused in his assault to turn his head to the detective. "Enjoying the show?" he asked blithely. "No," their captor sighed, "neither am I. He's behaving _too_ well, now. I had hoped he would struggle at least a _little_ bit." He regarded John silently for a moment.

The next thing John knew, he was being pressed all the way down against the floor, his bound wrists caught painfully under the small of his back. Bending over his captive, Moriarty slid his hand under the blonde man's jumper, feeling John's slight hitch of breath as ice-cold fingers ghosted over the doctor's warm abdomen. John knew he'd felt it, knew by the way the madman's fingernails dug into his skin in response, and another wave of self-loathing washed over him as he berated himself for giving Moriarty exactly what he wanted.

John bit his lip as Moriarty's hand moved further up his chest, and suppressed a shudder when he felt the man's manicured nails bite into the skin over his sternum, hard enough this time to draw blood. The consulting criminal dragged his fingernails back down the length of the blonde man's torso, and John's back arched as his body reacted to the contact very differently from how his mind was.

"Well, well!" Moriarty exclaimed. "Look at that!"

* * *

**SHERLOCK HOLMES**

I was losing my mind. I had to be. It was the only possible explanation for why John's distress was affecting me so much I couldn't even think.

_Concentrate! There has to be a way to get out of here!_

And I tried. I got as far as analyzing how much effort would be required to break down the door when John squirmed, and my attention was diverted back to my helpless flatmate.

In actuality, he only looked helpless. Had he wanted to, he could have struggled enough to force Moriarty off of him. The fact that he was not doing so was interesting. It offered two potential explanations, the first of which was that John _liked_ kissing Moriarty. Considering that possibility made me feel bizarrely sick to my stomach, but given John's countenance and the fact that he wasn't kissing back, I felt able to dismiss it as "unlikely" without worrying that personal bias was impacting my deductions.

The second possibility was that John had given in to my opponent in an effort to protect me from further abuse. Given John's excessive moral principle, this was definitely a plausible, indeed a probable, explanation. From a logical perspective it made no sense - John should rescue himself, escape, and get help, leaving me as was necessary. That was all that could be done if we weren't both to be tormented to untimely deaths.

Logic. It demanded he leave me, and I wanted him to, but not for the sake of finishing the case, I realized. I wanted him to leave me for _his_ sake. And even as much as I wanted him safe, the sacrifice he was making to protect me brushed against a neglected place of warmth in my chest. These bloody _emotions_ were dissolving me from the inside out as neatly as if I had swallowed Hydrochloric Acid.

I was sitting not quite at the edge of the circle afforded me by the chain linking my cuffs to the support pole. Moving so much as an inch sent spasms of pain running up my spine from my fractured femur, but I'd done it anyway, determined to at least bear witness to Moriarty's assault if I could not find some way to stop it.

I had seen some truly brutal murders in my time. I'd been brought in on cases of theft, of kidnap, and of terrorist attacks. None of them were as gruesome as what I was watching. John's composure was remarkable, but that only made it harder to see Moriarty unweave it slowly, first with the snogging and now clawing at his stomach. And when he exclaimed, "Well, well!" I felt my jaw clench tight of it's own accord.

It was inevitable that, the way Moriarty was feeling John up, the doctor's brain would release pleasure-stimulating hormones. That was biochemistry. That was how the human body was supposed to work. Moriarty's elation told me three things: first, he had succeeded in turning John's body on to him, second, the answering crimson color in my friend's ears said that he was both aware of and humiliated by this, and finally, my own visceral desire to be in Moriarty's place informed me that I had just become the hypothetical hydrophobic who took a dive into the deep end.

I was furious. I had had no notion that it was still possible for me to feel so angry about something, but there I was, breathing through my mouth and itching to throw punches until Moriarty stopped moving. John was in pain and embarrassed and it was all _his_ fault. Moriarty pressed himself more wantonly against the slight bulge in John's trousers, slid a hand up between his thighs, and grinned manically as John made an incomprehensible noise, his body telling him that the touch felt good and his emotions telling him that it most assuredly did _not_.

Moriarty slid backwards by a few feet and lowered his head; he allowed his teeth to graze the fabric of John's trousers, and I _lost my fucking mind_.

My reaction was entirely instinct-driven. Before my brain, high-functioning as it was, had the opportunity to catch up with what my body was doing, I was on my feet, leg be damned. The chain pulled taught behind me, tugging on the handcuffs, but I yanked back, determined to break both my wrists if it would save John.

Moriarty ignored me at first, amusing himself by running his hands along places that were obviously too sensitive, for John had given up on the business of staying still, instead flinching at every twisted caress. Finally, after I was reasonably sure I was in a position to snap my wrists and get out of the handcuffs, the consulting criminal looked up at me, eyebrows raised. His gaze took in my blown pupils, the color in my cheeks, and the not-insignificant bulge in my own pants, all factors of which I was aware and ignoring.

"Oh, excuse me," he said apologetically. Sitting up, he asked, "Did you want to get in on this?"

His question threw me for a loop.

"What?"

Moriarty looked at me meaningfully. "Are you saying you're not _interested_?"

I scrabbled for an answer. The truth was that I was interested in John. I could no longer hide from that fact. But on the other hand, I was _not_ interested in doing anything remotely intimate with anyone in front of Moriarty. I'd hitherto been assuming that he was going to take advantage of me next, and perhaps he still was, but here he was pushing John to me. Would kissing me be an improvement for my traumatized friend, or would it be far worse? I had no idea, no data, and now I had to act without it.

I opened my mouth (to say what, I didn't know), but Moriarty beat me to it.

"Really. I insist." The way he was staring at me definitely suggested that kissing me would be worse for John than kissing him, and I was afraid he was right. "Up you get, John," my opponent continued. "Slide over a couple of feet there."

John obeyed the order automatically, sitting up with effort. I was startled to see tears running down his cheeks; they must have been hidden previously by the blindfold. He scoot towards me as best he could, unable to see where he was going.

"Over here, John," I murmured softly. My friend, hearing me, altered course. When he was close enough to touch, I leaned over and rested my head gently against his shoulder. We were both sweating, both breathing hard, and John was a mess of tremors. Behind me, there came a little click - when I turned my head, I saw Moriarty place a tiny key in his suit pocket. He had let my left hand out of its cuff link, because, as he explained a moment later, this would be "far more amusing when I had a hand available."

"You know the rules, Johnny-boy," Moriarty said. "On your back, same as before." I thought for a moment that perhaps John's breath was coming even faster now, but I didn't know what that might mean. My doctor-flatmate went to lay down again, but before he'd managed it, Moriarty stepped forward again. "One last thing," he said, his expression bordering on a leer. "I do _so_ want to see this." My opponent did not have to say "I want to watch his trust in you die" for me to know what he meant. Moriarty ripped the blindfold off John's face almost gleefully, revealing for the first time all evening how red my friend's eyes had become.

John stared dazedly at me. His eyes widened somewhat in recognition and he sank onto his back. Straddling him then replaced writing a Best Man's speech as the hardest thing I'd ever done. Not because of my leg, which I hoisted over his lap by the hem of my trousers, but because I wanted John and knew that he did not want me in return. I couldn't hurt him, but I was about to anyway.

I turned to Moriarty. "May we have a minute?"

The man shrugged. "I'm not going anywhere, but you have a minute to talk."

I nodded and leaned over, supporting myself on my one hand so that I was face-to-face with John, separated by a few inches of open air. It was intimate, but that was not the point. With my head over John's face, we could talk quietly and Moriarty would be unable to read our lips.

"John," I whispered.

"Hey, Sherlock," John whispered back, a faint curve to his lips. "It's a right mess we've gotten ourselves into, isn't it?"

I laughed quietly. "It is, at that. I am so sorry about this."

John's eyes narrowed. "Don't try apologizing for something that isn't your fault. I wanted to go after him. I wanted to come. So don't you dare blame yourself."

I shook my head, curls falling into my eyes. "I am sorry for all of that, too, but that's not what I was talking about. I'm sorry about _this_. Now. Us. I know that you don't... don't want -"

"Don't want what, Sherlock?" John asked, confused.

"_Me_," I said quietly but emphatically. "...Touching you. Intimately."

"Oh." He tilted his head on the floor as if considering something. "When did I say that?"

"Say what?"

"That I didn't want you touching me?"

I frowned at him. "That _was_ the implication every time you said you weren't gay."

John was frowning, too. "No, the _implication_ was that when I go to clubs it's not because I'm looking to get into some bloke's pants."

"Yes, exactly, so -"

"So you are not just 'some bloke'," John interrupted with a smile. "Now shut up and kiss me, you egotistical idiot."

It was John's gentle ribbing more than anything else which convinced me that it really was alright. Logically, I knew that Moriarty was watching, but illogically, it felt like we were the only people in the world. I dropped onto my elbow, propping myself up so that I could lay on John without crushing him.

I let my chin fall, and I kissed him softly, naïvely, not the way he had taught me for the Larkin case but just the way that I imagined a proper kiss should be, because this time, I wasn't playing a part. The way the night was progressing, we could both be dead by sunup, and if this one moment was our last opportunity to do this, then I was going to be myself, the sociopathic detective with no understanding of love who fell for an ex-military doctor wearing a jumper.

John's reciprocation was at first clumsy (nervous-reaction-to-kissing-another-man) and tasted slightly metallic (fear-induced-release-of-chemicals-into-his-system) which turned more passionate as a friction gathered between us (sensual-reaction-to-physical-stimuli-supported-by-appropriate-emotional-sentiment), and then sweeter as I pulled away from him (emotional-sentiment-attempting-to-convey-itself-via-physical-contact). It was the return of my reasoning faculties which prompted me to breathe to him, just as the kiss broke and our faces were still almost touching, "I love you."

John's eyes were bright, but he responded with a mischievous half-grin. "I love you, too, you obnoxious prick."

The moment was broken when Moriarty clapped his hands together. "You boys are breaking all my expectations tonight! Really, John? Kissing _back_? Tut tut, what would Mary say?"

John's expression darkened with something too like guilt, and hesitantly, I let my one free hand rub small circles into his shoulder, rather like he had done for me at Angelo's. I took it as a good sign when he didn't shrug me off and turned to look daggers at Moriarty.

"What Mary would have to say is really none of your business," John snapped. I slid sideways off of him and lent the use of my arm so he could sit up.

"Touchy subject?" asked my dark haired inverse. "She was very gallant, all the way to the end - set the fire alarm off hoping your neighbors would run. Of course," he added with a shrug, "it didn't help her any."

John did not give a reply, but the slant and set of his mouth reaffirmed what he had told me on Elvanston Street: that he would make sure that Moriarty suffered for every atrocity the man had ever committed, but first and foremostly for the death of his wife.

We did not have a lot of time. On the pretense of helping John to his feet, I leaned close to his ear. "Know two things," I whispered. "First that I love you, and second that I will do what I must to get us out of here." John squeezed my hand to show he understood. It was just possible that maybe he actually did.

"Sher-lock." The way Moriarty sang my name, two notes, like a door bell, sent a shiver of premonition through me. "It's your turn."


	9. An Abundance of Keys

Well, let me just say that the writer's block on this chapter was brutal, but it seems like I'm finally on speaking terms with the characters again. Once again, FFN hates Morse Code. FYI, there is blood and only quasi-consensual Sheriarty in the chapter. Also some slight mood whiplash from the chapter eight. Enjoy.

* * *

An Abundance of Keys

**JOHN WATSON**

_"Sher-lock. It's your turn."_

John looked the detective in the eyes. He'd been expecting this, John realized. That was what his cryptic statement had meant - it was an explanation and acknowledgement that he intended to play along with Moriarty's demented games. Sherlock gave a nearly imperceptible nod of his head toward the door, mouthing "go".

The criminal mastermind was sending a text. "You're going to have to leave, Johnny-boy," he said. "Moran will escort you. Don't worry - Sherlock and I just need to have a little chat."

A key turned in the knob and on the other side of the room, Moran pushed open the door.

"Sir?"

Moriarty waved at John. "Find a suitable place to lock this one up for the next hour or so. Keep an eye on him; his escaping would be dreadfully inconvenient."

"Sir." Moran directed his rifle at John and gestured toward the door. "Out you come, then."

The doctor took a last look over his shoulder, attempting to convey in a glance to his friend the depth of his affection and his determination to break them out of there. How much of it registered on his face he had no idea, but hopefully Sherlock was using his frankly spooky deductive powers to figure it out.

At the door, Moran grabbed John by the shoulder. The blonde man shrugged him off. "I can walk by myself, thanks," he said. "Where are we going?"

"Down the stairs," the gunman said. "You can walk, but try running and it'll be the last thing you ever try."

"I'd sort of figured that out, actually," said John, mostly past caring what happened to him.

"Watch your mouth," the gunman said angrily. "Moriarty's gonna make you _beg_ me to shoot you later, and I may just watch you suffer."

"Oh yeah?" the blond man asked casually. "I bet that's not what he makes _you_ beg for, am I right?"

"Shut _up_," Moran hissed.

"Touched a nerve, have I?" The doctor knew Moran was a dangerous man to bait, but he was also feeling too reckless to care. Giving Sebastian Moran high blood pressure was the only mercy he'd been granted, and it was one he was determined to exploit. The sniper grabbed the doctor violently by the shoulders, and for a split second John was sure he was about to have the living daylights beat out of him, Moriarty's orders or no, when Moran shoved him through a side door into an empty storage room.

"Keep talking," Moran hissed through the crack in the door as he locked it from the outside. "You won't be so cocky later, I'll tell you that."

Alone in the small box of a room, John took stock of his surroundings: blank walls, a tiny barred window not two feet across, and a few metal pipes running the water and electricity. A single bald light bulb protruded from near the ceiling, enclosed by a steel cage. None of these offered very promising means of assistance. The metal cuffs around his wrists clinked; in theory, they weren't hard to get out of. Of course, for that, one generally needed a piece of wire. The room mocked him with it's emptiness.

John Watson was not the world's only consulting detective. He _was_ an ex-army doctor for the British Armed Forces. Mentally clapping his hands together, a scrap of his training floated back to the surface of his memory.

_The first prerogative of the prisoner is to escape._

He regarded the room solemnly as he worked out exactly how to do that.

Finally to himself he muttered, "I'm going to need a shim."

* * *

**SHERLOCK HOLMES**

Black-brown eyes were gazing into my steel grey ones, though I made no effort to stop myself blinking. It always unnerved people, I mused, to find that I wasn't to be drawn into childish staring matches quite so easily as all that. To say that I was not worried would be untrue; there were undoubtedly elements of my current captivity that I found cause for concern. These were not, however, the elements that would have bothered most individuals (_id est_ being chained to a pole in the same room with a brilliantly deranged psychopath), but rather the logistics of the escape I was planning.

It was not the difficulty of the idea so much as it was the misuse I would assuredly experience in its exercise. To put it simply, phase one was going to be painful. I could deal with pain, _was_ dealing with it, as my leg reminded me, but there was a ratio of discomfort versus my physical capabilities, and if the former tipped too heavily on the scales, I could potentially be rendered physiologically incapable of completing the second phase of my escape.

On our first case together, I remarked to a perturbed John and exasperated detective inspector that the only trick to dealing with serial killers was waiting for them to make a mistake. In this respect, Moriarty was no different. He was simply smart enough to anticipate mistakes and stop himself from making them. Though the waiting had lasted weeks, the inevitable trip-up had finally reared its head.

Moriarty had shown me the key.

He'd let my one hand loose.

I'd watched him return the key to his pocket.

All there was left to do was slip it off his person.

Pickpocketing Jim Moriarty required a personal sacrifice; there was no help for it. I had to get him close enough to touch, and the only way to do that was -

"So, Sherlock," Moriarty began as the door snapped shut behind Moran, "how are you liking my hospitality so far? This is your last night, so you should enjoy it."

My eyes swept the room critically.

"The décor needs work."

Moriarty chuckled and took a step closer.

"Yes, it does," he agreed. "You would not believe how hard it is to find a good designer who will work illegally on an old military compound outside of London." The consulting criminal gave a long-suffering sigh. "But that's the business, I suppose. And speaking of business..." He closed the gap between us. "How's the leg holding up?"

He drove his knee into the side of my leg, pressing hard on the fracture, and for a second, white fire shot up my spine, blinding me with its cruel radiance.

I gasped, collapsing against the pole for support. It hurt too badly. Moriarty was close enough, but I couldn't force my fists to un-ball and reach for the key. Seeing my face, obviously in pain, beginning to perspire, Moriarty pressed harder. I could feel blood running down the inside of my trouser leg. The world tilted on its axis - I was going to pass out again. And then he backed off.

Straightening, the criminal mastermind gave a grotesque impersonation of a smile.

"I have been waiting for this," he said. "You have no idea how bored I was, waiting for you to come back from the dead. Now I'll put you back there. Permanently."

"Why?" My throat was tight with discomfort, but I got the word out evenly enough. "You'll just be bored again when you do."

Moriarty shook his head wryly. "But that's the point! I have to beat you! And after I do, who knows? Being the world's only consulting criminal does have its perks."

He stepped forward again, running a finger across my cheekbone. "You won't be around to see that, though."

"Don't be so sure," I said smugly.

"Are you going to try escaping?" he asked, faint interest flaring in his eyes. "That would be amusing. Fatal for you, but amusing."

"My understanding was that staying put would be fatal," I pointed out. "Was I wrong?"

Moriarty considered this. "No." He drew a silver razor blade from his pocket. "But it would be so predictable."

I eyed the old barber's tool in his hand. "Been watching Sweeney Todd, have we?"

Moriarty scoffed. "Don't pretend to understand cultural references. You'll only embarrass yourself."

"Who said I didn't understand the reference?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "John likes it."

Moriarty mirrored my expression. "Does he make you join him for movie nights? That's so quaint." He stepped forward, unfolding the blade so that it glinted in what few gasping rays of light remained. "I'm sure you're going to try wresting this out of my grip, so just know that if you succeed, I'll get the crowbar and break your other leg."

"Spoilsport."

In reality, I had no intention of fighting him for the razor. In fact, the closer he came with it, the better. Moriarty stopped right in front of me, so close that I could feel his warm breath on my face. I looked stolidly at him even as I felt the edge of the razor rest itself against my shoulder, and I didn't bat an eye as it parted first fabric and then flesh.

It did not hurt. Not at first. There was just a strange sort of pinch, and then cold metal dividing muscle. The pain came after, when the bleeding started. I could feel the dark liquid welling up from the incision, knew that it was pouring over and down my arm, but rather than look at the damage, I kept my eyes fixed on my opponent. Moriarty gave his handiwork due consideration before he cut the circle next to the line.

"I still owe you, you see?" he said quietly. "I.O.U. Now you have a little reminder of that fact." He cut the third grisly letter in his message, and I was unable to stop a groan escaping my lips as the nerves in my arm tritely informed my brain that they were under attack. I needed to staunch the bleeding - _quickly_ \- but to do that I had to escape my bonds. It was time to hurry phase one along.

Moriarty wiped the blood from his razor onto his hand before leaning over and smearing it on my lips.

"You should wear lipstick," he said approvingly. "The color suits you."

"Mmm," I murmured skeptically. "I would have said 'blood red' was more your color."

Smiling thinly, Moriarty took me by the shoulder, letting his fingers dig into the mutilated skin under my shirt. Red-brown liquid squelched from beneath his manicured nails, and suddenly it felt like my arm was on fire, that the fingers clutching my shoulder had transfigured into white-hot knives, but even as I was whimpering in agony my mind cleared, like a veil lifted itself from my vision. I was so close to achieving my goal, but if I moved too quickly, if Moriarty so much as suspected what I had in mind, I would lose. The only way forward was to make certain that Jim Moriarty was totally and completely distracted.

The hand which wasn't squeezing the lifeblood from my shoulder reached around behind my head to hang on to the post, and then he was pressed up against me and kissing me hard.

Moriarty was vicious. He was biting my lower lip, pressing his tongue to the inside of my cheek, and licking the sanguine liquid from the edges of my mouth. It wasn't long before all I could taste was salt and copper. I let him have at it, reciprocating enough to maintain his attention. Meanwhile, my hand inched toward his suit pocket.

When Moriarty pulled back, his grin was a bit too red-stained to look human.

"You like that, do you?" he asked. "Figures. I told you we were made for each other."

I began to snicker quietly to myself.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing," I sighed. "Only what you said earlier about me escaping."

Moriarty frowned. "What about it?"

"You were right. It _is_ amusing."

"Why is that?"

"Because I found the key." I raised my right hand, completely free as it was of handcuffs or chains.

"How -?!"

I didn't let him finish the sentence. Instead, I grabbed him by the wrist and clapped the metal cuffs on him.

"It's been fun," I said, stepping back out of reach. "Let's not do it again sometime."

Waving jauntily, I hobbled across the expanse of the room, keeping weight off my leg. I picked up John's gun, and at the window dropped the key into the bushes. I needed to buy all the time I could.

* * *

**JOHN WATSON**

The doctor had succeeded in knocking a hole in the wall, having kicked at a spot next to the door until he put his foot through it. A passing guard on the other side had jeered at his feeble attempts to "knock the door down", but John paid him no mind. Turning around backwards, he got his hand inside the hole and ripped away a strip of drywall. Then he crouched down and tried to remember how to open handcuffs with a shim.

He shoved the plaster piece in between the locking mechanism and the teeth, and then tightened the cuffs a notch. Drywall was an unideal implement for choreographing one's escape attempts. He could feel it starting to crack behind him and winced. If it broke now, he'd be stuck - his wrists were too wide to tighten the cuffs a second time. Exerting more pressure on the makeshift lever, the doctor at last heard the tell-tale click which meant he'd succeeded. The handcuffs clattered to the floor.

Rubbing some feeling back into his wrists, John stretched and stood. His arms were free, at least. Now he had to see about the rest of him. Striding to the window, John examined the narrow opening. The bars were rusting, but they seemed solid enough, and even had he managed to break them, he doubted he could squeeze his shoulders through the hole.

Even as he was considering this dim prospect, a light across the marsh caught his attention. There was, for the briefest of seconds, a flash in the dark near the bottom of a rise maybe three hundred feet from the compound. A moment later, it flashed again, and then a third time. After that, it stopped.

For what felt like a long time, John stood frozen and mulling over his best course of action. Was it Lestrade signaling him, or was it one of Moriarty's men, perhaps communicating with one of the rooftop guards? Finally, he decided that the situation couldn't get much worse, so he retrieved the handcuffs from the floor and held the metal where it caught the light of the cell's only bulb. Then he moved his hand back and forth in front of the window, flashing the reflected light out over the marsh. Hopefully someone of goodwill was watching.

... _ _ _ ...

Dot-dot-dot-dash-dash-dash-dot-dot-dot

_SOS_

A long minute passed. John felt his stomach sinking as the flashing light made no reply. He had all but given up hope when suddenly there it was again, like a white firefly over the marsh grass.

._ _ ... _ _ _

_Who?_

John translated the word with painstaking slowness, grimacing as he concentrated. Years ago, in the army, he had known a pilot by the name of George Ferny. They had been good friends, and the man had taught John the Morse signals aviators used over the airwaves. Before Ferny died (plane engine malfunction) he and John had messaged each other every day using the code, just for the fun of it. Now the doctor was aware that the skill could save his life, and just as aware that he hadn't bothered to practice in five years. Thinking to himself, John tapped out the answer on the window sill before he flashed it.

._ _ _ ._ _

_JW_

The reply was quicker in coming this time; presumably Lestrade now had a code chart pulled up on his smartphone to translate with.

_._. _ _ _ ._. _._ _

_Copy._

... _ ._ _. _.. _... _._ _

_Stand by._

John ground his teeth in frustration. The entire operation had gone downhill the minute he and Sherlock had split up that afternoon. Now the detective was in danger, John was powerless to stop it, and Lestrade's advice was to wait? The DI had had all afternoon to come up with something. The doctor spun around and glared again at the room ensconcing him. If Lestrade wasn't able to get him out, then he'd have to do it himself.

But how? Doubtless he could knock the door off its hinges if he ran at it hard enough, but that would not exactly be inconspicuous. If he could just pick the lock... And then John Watson was struck by an idea.

Turning back to the window, the doctor signaled a final message.

_... ._. _...

_BRB_

No sooner had he finished than he turned around and repurposed the handcuffs for the second time that evening, smashing at the lightbulb through its cage as hard as he could until the steel links broke the glass. Immediately, the room went dark.

Wrapping his jumper sleeve around his fingers for insulation, John ripped the filament out of the broken bulb, ignoring the broken glass until the fine wire was firmly in hand. Then he bent it into an L-shape and sat in front of the door. Inserting the wire carefully, he began to twist and tease it, listening hard as the tumblers inside clicked. The first was the most difficult; it didn't help that his hands were sweating, slipping on the minute wire, and he was beginning to regret his rash decision to smash the light. If he couldn't get the door to open, he would be trapped without even a means of communication.

Twisting the filament sharply in annoyance, John's mouth fell open as the first tumbler opened and the wire pushed further into the lock. The next pivot was easier to unlatch, and the third took nearly no time at all. As the bolt fell open inside the door, John could have shouted with jubilation, but he clapped a lid on his sense of triumph, instead pressing his face to the floor and peering out under the door for any sign of human presence.

There was a room across the hall from which voices were issuing, but its door was mostly closed, and the doctor saw no other indication of anyone within earshot, so he stood and carefully pushed open his cell door, peering around both corners before tiptoeing into the hall. Taking but a moment to steady his breathing, John shut the door carefully behind him and edged down the steps.

The next room he came to on his right was dark and empty. He sidled into it, looking around for a light switch. Finding one, he flipped the light on and off in pattern.

_. _ . _ .._ _ ._ ._

_Got out. - JW_

The reply was swift in coming.

_. . _ ._. _ _ .._. _. .._ ._ ._. _.. ...

_Get roof guards._

John's eyes narrowed. If this was some sort of clever trap, he'd be playing right into Moriarty's hands to do as they asked. On the other hand, if it was Lestrade signaling him, it was important that he facilitate a police rescue to the best of his ability. There was no other option, he decided. Moriarty had to be stopped. Lestrade needed an in, and for that, the guards had to go. If it was a trap, then John Watson was going to make damn sure Moriarty rued the day he thought he could tear apart the doctor's life.

Slinking down the stairs, John made it to the front door of the tower without incident. Secure in the knowledge that the troublesome pair of flatmates had been captured, Moran's control over the gunmen had relaxed, and most of the mercenaries were sitting slack-jawed in their barracks poisoning their livers with alcohol, or else they were playing cards with their fellows. John had a moment of panic when a guard passed him in the hall, but he just grumbled something about needing the loo, too hammered to notice anything out of the ordinary. The doctor smirked to himself. Perhaps the day Moriarty was really going to rue was the one where he decided to stock beer for his employees.

At the base of the tower, John stole out into the night, letting the thick midnight-black atmosphere cloak his movements across the compound. This was something he knew how to do. A plan was working itself out in the doctor's mind, a very simple one. Undoubtedly, Sherlock would devise a far more intricate scheme, but it was Sherlock John was rescuing, so his own mundane stratagems would have to be sufficient. In this light, incapacitating the rooftop guardsmen would be child's play. After that, it was a simple matter of getting Lestrade's team inside and arresting everyone in the vacinity.

John's mouth tightened. Of course it wasn't that simple; there were still a dozen guards at least between the ground floor of the tower and Moriarty, plus Moran, and what was more, they had Sherlock as a bargaining chip.

_Sherlock_.

The blonde man felt his stomach clench, even as he came to the base of the first of the outer buildings. Who knew what the psychopath was doing to him? And moreover... John's cheeks burned as he remembered the detective kissing him. That might have a bit of an impact on their live-in relationship, provided they ever made it back to Baker Street.

On the back of the building was a ladder going up to the roof. Finding it, John began to climb, moving swiftly but silently, careful to let his feet make no noise on the metal rungs. Peering cautiously over the edge of the wall onto the gravel roof, the doctor could just make out a black figure standing on the other side, looking out across the marsh.

"- telling you," the gunman was saying into a small walkie-talkie, "there's something weird going on. There's some sort of light that keeps blinking way out in the grass."

The device crackled with static. "Don' w'rry 'bout 't," slurred the reply from the other side. Apparently, the beer had found its way onto the roof as well. "'S prob'ly - hic! - jus' ligh' on th' water 'r somethin'."

"No, really," the sober mercenary insisted. "We oughtta tell Moran -"

The end of his sentence petered out in a gurgle as John wrapped his arm firmly around the man's windpipe, cutting off his speech and breathing. With no shortage of strength, the guard struggled, elbowing John hard in the stomach, but the doctor was by no means a weak man, and the element of surprise was strongly in his favor. Within minutes, the gunman ran out of oxygen and blacked out. John dropped the body and scooped up the walkie, which was chattering away with, "Oi, you there, Rickie?" and the like.

John spoke softly into it, dropping his voice and hoping static would muffle the discrepancy in timbre. "I'm here," he said. "Sorry. Saw a fox or sum'mat, out in the grass."

The man on the other line cackled. "Damn, Rickie, jumpin' a' shad'ws?"

"Yeah, something like that," John replied, before ripping the batteries out of the communicator and dropping it to the ground.

* * *

**SHERLOCK HOLMES**

The door to the top of the tower hadn't been latched again after Moran left, and it was with no minor degree of self-satisfaction that I shut it behind me. The next step couldn't have been clearer - find John.

Before me, stairs spiraled down the tower, interrupted at intervals by landings, at which point small rooms on both sides jutted off into the walls. The wooden steps were original-to-the-structure-judging-by-the-prevalence-of-green-mold-at-the-edges, and marsh soil, left-as-a-deposit-from-a-male-shoe, confirmed that John had walked this way, followed by Moran (knick-in-the-drywall-where-his-gun-hit-it).

I could track John. I could also save time and ask Moran where he was. The sniper and I had a little unfinished business to clear up. This felt like as good a time as any.

The door directly to my right was shut, but a single glance told me it was unfastened. Theoretically, the guard dog would be sitting outside the room of his master, blissfully unaware that dear Jim had gotten into a bit of a tight spot. Pressing my ear to the wood, I could hear deep-breathing-appropriate-for-a-man-of-Moran's-height-and-chest-cavity-size, tempered by the raspy-thrum-characteristic-of-a-man-who-smokes-cigars. The sniper was seated-facing-away-from-me, given the slight muffling of noise. A sneer settled itself comfortably on my features as I threw the door open.

_Drama queen_. I could just hear John saying as much as Moran leaped in shock from his chair, reaching for his rifle, but I raised John's pistol and he stopped short.

"Mustn't touch that," I growled, hiding my limp as best I could as I crossed the office to him. "You'll find I'm not a patient man on my best days, and this has not exactly one of my better ones."

Moran was fuming, but I could see the trace of fear in his eyes and scoffed inwardly. Men with big guns were all the same - they toted their scary toys around because everything frightened them.

I knocked the rifle to the side and pressed the barrel of the Browning up against the sniper's Adam's apple. John's pistol had no bullets in it. I knew that. Moriarty knew that. Moran was absolutely clueless. The irony was divinity itself.

"Where is he?" I demanded, "and I suggest you tell me quickly, because I can find him with or without your help, and no one will ask questions when I tell them I shot you in self-defense."

"Down the stairs. Third door on the right," Moran replied sullenly.

"Excellent," I purred. "I trust this room has a key?"

"In the drawer."

Keeping my appropriated weapon trained on the sniper, I picked up the rifle first and then fished through the drawer for the key, never taking my eyes off the other man.

"Right," I breathed. "Sit. Stay. Be good."

Then I slung the rifle over my shoulder and backed out of the room, locking it from outside. That was one pit bull declawed. Briefly, I wondered if the same room key would work on whatever cell they'd sealed John up in. The doorknobs were standard-issue, so it seemed probable.

I could see all the cracked-bowed-damaged parts of the steps that would creak should I tread on them, and thus picked out a zigzagging path to follow downwards. There was a great deal of animation from inside the guarded rooms I was passing, but I paid it no mind. The third door on the right was all dark inside. That was unexpected, but not enormously surprising, either. What was a surprise was laying my hand on the knob and feeling it turn beneath my fingers. There had been no trace of a lie in Moran's eyes - he knew I was too smart for that - so what was this?

Letting the door swing open on its hinges, I took in the details at a glance: handcuffs-discarded-on-the-windowsill-and-a-plaster-shim-on-the-floor, the shattered-lightbulb-missing-its-wiring, and the makeshift-picklock-lying-by-the-door.

_Brilliant_.

I shut the door again, feeling a surge of admiration course through my system. John did manage to shock me sometimes, and here was just another instance to pencil onto the scoreboard. I should have realized that Dr. Watson was a hard person to keep in handcuffs.

Where would he have gone? The most logical assumption would have been to rescue me, but I hadn't met him on the stairs, and hypothetically he was intelligent enough to not repeat my mistake of trying to climb up the outside of the tower. It was then that I recalled the handcuffs.

_Oh. Obvious._

Left on the windowsill like that, he could only have been using the light reflecting off the metal to signal to somebody outside. Presumably, the doctor went to meet whoever he had contacted.

Kneeling down gingerly, I examined the scuff mark left in the wood mould; it fit John's shoe size exactly. As I knelt on the stair, it occurred to me that it had gotten very quiet - why was it quiet?

"Stupid," I muttered aloud. "That was stupid. Very, very obvious." I didn't flinch when I heard the gun cock just behind my head.

"You come to get your rifle back?" I asked, knowing perfectly well that Moran was standing in back of me with half a dozen guards. A muscular arm pulled me up by the collar and slammed my chest against the wall.

"I didn't see the walkie-talkie," I continued, though little black spots were dancing along the edge of my vision. "Where'd you hide it?"

"I don't know how you got out," Moran spat, "but I know someone who's going to be very happy to have you back."

"Oh, yes, I'm sure Moriarty will love to see me again," I said coolly. "Better take me back on up, then, before I get away."

Moran was apparently miffed about being locked in his office, and quite literally dragged me back up the stairs. Everything my foot caught on rubbed bone against bone in my thigh, and I was doing my utmost not to think about my shoulder, but I still had a slightly manic smile on my face when the sniper dumped me on my back in front of Moriarty. With all my diversionary chit-chat, none of the guards had even bothered checking John's door.

John was free, and no-one in the compound but me knew it yet.


	10. The Pit and the Pendulum

Ready for the next-to-last chapter? It's 7,000 words, a fact which probably makes me too happy. I really hope it doesn't fail people's expectations. Thank you to everyone who has favorited/followed/reviewed this story for me; it means a lot. My only warning for this part is that there's some potentially graphic violence in the section designated as Sherlock's POV.

A final note: For the sections from Lestrade's POV, I've referred to Anderson and Donovan by their first names, because they're the DI's friends and coworkers. It seemed to make sense to differentiate between how he thinks of them and how the other characters think of them.

* * *

The Pit and the Pendulum

**GREGORY LESTRADE**

The detective inspector was not getting impatient. "Impatient" had been around 2:00, when the compound was crawling with guardsmen, John and Sherlock were long since prisoners, and the situation was looking hopeless. By 4:00, he'd called in every favor he had, had sweet-talked every official listed under his contacts and a few that weren't, and had as much reinforcement at his back as Britain was capable of providing. He was willing to bet that Mycroft, who had called him looking for updates every half hour, had also brought in members of the CIA to rescue his brother.

Rainham Marshes was on lockdown, and there was no conceivable way that anyone was getting out of the base without Greg knowing it, but having the marsh ringed in did not mean that he was in a position to _use_ any of his support. All the DI had to do was make a move that Moriarty noticed, and then the doctor and detective would be worse than dead, if they weren't already.

By 8:00, Philip was actively trying to be helpful, and Sally hadn't made a single rude comment all afternoon. As the evening dragged on and dusk deepened into true nighttime, Greg devolved to the point of sitting in their bivouac and plucking despondently at the marsh grass. With no news, and little change except for the settling down of some of Moriarty's gunmen, the detective inspector was left mostly to himself, sipping cold coffee and trying not to let his imagination run away with itself. Of course, the more he attempted to suppress his anxious inner monologue, the more graphic the pictures he swatted away became.

It should come as no surprise, therefore, that Greg nearly jumped out of his skin when Sally tapped him on the shoulder.

"Christ!" he exclaimed softly. "Give me a little warning, huh?"

"I've had a thought," the sergeant said. "We should try signaling them, you know, with a mirror or something. Maybe John just... lost his phone."

Greg spread his hands. "What about the blokes up on the roof? Won't they get suspicious?"

Sally shook her head in exasperation. "I can't just _sit_ here any longer. If we don't do something soon, I am going to lose it."

The DI sighed. "Yeah, I know what you mean. Do it, then, but nothing fancy. And keep an eye on those guys on the roof - if any of them look even a little over-interested in this direction, stop."

Sergeant Donovan retrieved a hand mirror from her purse and a torch from the bag of miscellaneous equipment. Then she very earnestly began blinking the torch on and off, letting the mirror bounce the light across the marsh. She tried a quick succession of blinks and then stopped, waiting for a reply. When none came, the morale of the group collective dropped another notch.

"Well, it was always a long shot," Greg said at last. "They're probably just... tied up or something. Try again in a half hour."

So she did. And then again at 9:00. It had surpassed 9:30 when there was a flicker of light from the tower.

"Lestrade!" Sally hissed, sitting up straighter. "Did you see that?"

And then there was a definite series of flashes; the detective inspector counted them quietly aloud.

"Dot, dot, dot, dash, dash, dash, dot, dot, dot... That's 'SOS', isn't it?"

"I _think_ so," the sergeant said, trying to better position her mirror.

"Yeah, it is," Philip piped up. When they both turned to him in surprise, he just shrugged. "I do have this job for a reason, you know. I'm not Sherlock, but I'm not a _complete_ idiot."

By this time, Sally had fixed the mirror and pulled up an IMC chart. She blinked her light, and drew breath sharply at the reply.

"It's John," she said. "What do I tell him?"

Greg hurried to her. "I don't know, just have him hang on a minute. Has Mycroft said anything new?"

Philip checked his phone. "Not yet."

"Well, bring him up to speed then!"

Sally turned to the detective inspector. "I told him to stand by. What are we -"

She was interrupted by another string of flashes from the tower.

"B... R... B..." she murmured, looking from her chart to the sequence of dots and dashes she'd copied in the mud. "Be right back? Damn it, what is he doing?"

"The light went out!" Greg whispered urgently, pointing at the now-dark tower room.

Five minutes of nail-biting tension passed like aeons until the light in the next room blinked on and off. Frantically, Sally copied the message down as Greg called out the signals. Finally decoding it, the sergeant sighed in relief.

"He got out," she said. "I don't know how he did it, but he got out."

"Clever bastard," Greg chuckled weakly. "Tell him to take care of the guards on the roof, if he can. We could get _in_ -"

"Detective inspector Lestrade," said a voice from behind them.

Greg spun around and beheld the strangest sight he'd seen all day.

Mycroft Holmes was standing in the middle of the marsh dressed in khakis and hiking boots, using his umbrella to hold the grass at a distance, as if its mere presence offended him. Behind him stood two bodyguards, who were dressed much like Mycroft and looking equally uncomfortable.

"Mr. Holmes," the DI said in astonishment. "You didn't say you were coming."

Mycroft cringed, as though his venture into "legwork" caused him physical pain. "My little brother is being held captive by a serial killer who we believed blew his brains out on the top of a hospital months ago. What did you expect I was going to do? Sit in my office drinking cocktails all evening?"

Greg tried his best to look as though he hadn't been wondering why the government official wasn't doing exactly that and instead waved him over to where Sally was kneeling with the mirror.

"John's just been in contact with us - supposedly, he's going to signal when the gunmen on the roof have been disabled."

"And my brother?" Mycroft asked, his voice as clipped as it ever was. Greg had seen the man's objectivity in action before and reflected that it was that precise quality that made the elder Holmes so good at his job - he could discuss war and revolution with as much tact and composure as anyone else could talk about telly.

Greg was not feeling especially objective himself. "We don't know," he admitted, squinting through the darkness at the compound. "I've told you everything, haven't I? Last text I got from John, Sherlock had gotten caught. Now John's been signaling us, but flashing lights back and forth makes it a little tough to make lengthy inquiries."

"And your people?" the official asked, sitting in a camp chair gingerly, like he'd never seen one before and didn't know if it would support his weight.

"We've got officers stationed all around the base," the DI reported, "and two helicopters in reserve, since they'd be awfully conspicuous hovering around here all afternoon."

"Quite."

"Moriarty's got no idea we're here," Philip interjected proudly.

Greg laughed once, shortly. "Oh, I don't know about that. We haven't been attacked, true enough, but I can't shake the feeling that maybe he _wants_ us here."

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "That's an interesting point of view, detective inspector. What makes you say that?"

Chewing his lip, Greg shook his head. "I'm not sure," he said. "It's just a hunch, you know, like -"

He was saved from having to explain further by a sharp buzz in his jacket pocket. Withdrawing his mobile, Greg read the text and inhaled sharply.

"It's from John!" he announced.

* * *

**JOHN WATSON**

John stood over the pair of sleeping guards, rubbing some of the soreness from his arms. These were the last two (on the roof, at least), but the dispatching of the both of them had been a much greater chore than picking off the gunmen standing watch singly. He'd taken the first one down without much trouble, but his buddy had noticed, of course, and it was only by kicking the walkie talkie off the roof that John had stopped him calling for reinforcement. Even after that, there had been a struggle, and John was growing concerned by the severity of the numerous bruises he would be sporting the next couple of days.

The doctor climbed down off the roof, mindful of his injuries (in particular, a nasty blow to the left of his spine that was probably already blackening), and set out for the front gate. At this hour, locked and electrified, it was unguarded, and the doctor was praying silently that if anyone was still watching the monitors they were too inebriated to process what they were seeing.

John took his mobile from his pocket, smiling slightly at the black screen. After taking down the guards at the last building, the doctor had thought to retrieve it from inside. Luckily, it had been in the closet exactly where he'd left it.

Small favors, he thought mordantly.

Opening his text messages, he found Lestrade's number and plugged in:

_9:57 p.m.  
Took care of the guards and found phone. Meet me at the gate; hope you've got some tools. - JW_

A moment later the mobile vibrated with the reply.

_9:57 p.m.  
Have tools. Will be there in a few. - GL_

John never felt happier to see anyone in his life than he did the moment the detective inspector appeared out of the marsh grass on the other side of the gate. He wasn't even displeased to see Donovan or Anderson, though he was a bit startled when Mycroft's visage materialized out of the gloom, followed by two grim-faced bodyguards.

"John!" Lestrade exclaimed. "Are you alright?"

"I'll live," the doctor said flatly. "But keep your voice down. I got the blokes on the roof, but there could be more hiding somewhere."

"Point taken."

As the DI began digging around in their supply bag for something with which to cut the gate's padlock, Mycroft stepped close to the fence.

"Dr. Watson," Mycroft began, clearing his throat almost nervously, "John... My brother...?"

John felt his throat tighten, but he looked Mycroft directly in the eyes as he replied, "Alive when I saw him last. Moriarty's got him."

"I see." The government official's voice was deadpan, his speech unaffected, but there was a tightening around his lips and in his fingers that John had come to associate in Sherlock with deep distress.

Lestrade was meanwhile occupied with a heavy-duty pair of shears, with which he was waging war on the padlock's pivoting hook, applying as much muscle as his stocky frame had in it to cut through the thick alloy. The squeal of metal on metal grated alarmingly on the ears, and John thought it proof of God's existence that the racket hadn't brought anyone running, but the DI was persistent, and with the clang of inevitability, the broken lock fell to the ground. The double doors creaked open by degrees; Lestrade pulled Donovan back out of the way.

"Careful. It's electric," he warned her.

When they were all assembled inside, Lestrade fired off a message to the other officers. "Right," he said. "I've told the others to begin closing the loop. Paramedics are standing by. We're to detain Jim Moriarty long enough for the rest of the LPD to get here and take him into custody. I've warned everyone not to shoot unless they're fired on first." He turned to Mycroft. "As a civilian and member of the British government, I'm going to have to insist -"

"I'm coming with," Mycroft snapped. "I didn't come all the way out here to stand around and twiddle my thumbs."

"I figured that," Lestrade said heavily. "I just had to say it, is all. Standard procedure and whatnot. Shall we go, then?"

John pointed at the tower. "Right this way, ladies and gentlemen."

* * *

**SHERLOCK HOLMES**

Moran kicked open the tower room door and released his grip on my shirt collar, dropping me with a thud on my bad leg. Stifling a groan, my eyes rolled far enough back in my head to see Jim Moriarty leaning against the old machinery and tossing a bent bobby-pin in his hand.

"Really, Sherlock, is that actually the best that you've got?" he asked. "I admit, you started off well. Snatching the key from under my nose like that? Nice. But then _locking_ Moran in his room? That was your follow-up? Your desperation to find your boyfriend is making you stupid."

I bristled slightly at the madman's choice of insult.

"'Stupid'?" I repeated. My voice was too soft (result-of-trauma-shock-and-pain, Molly Hooper's voice informed me from some drafty corner of my mind palace), rasping in my throat as I spoke, but my tones remained politely offended. "I beg to differ. Your assessment of the situation is missing a single key fact, and I assure you that it makes my behavior in no way tending toward foolish."

Moriarty laughed skeptically. "Oh, I'm sure. Please, Sherlock, give up already. You've lost. Even your lies are getting pitiable. Pretending that you know something that I don't? Are you and John competing for 'most unimaginative'?"

I smiled slowly. "Look me in the eyes and tell me I'm lying."

As he strode over to where I was laying on my side, Moriarty did his utmost to look like he was just humoring me, but I could sense the undercurrent of curiosity lurking in the slight-spring-and-quickening of his step.

Crouching next to my prone form, Moriarty examined my face through slitted eyes. "Well?" he said.

My smile deepened, and I said only, "I know something you don't."

For a long minute, my opponent examined my face, his eyes flickering from the eighty-beats-per-minute-resting-heart-rate-due-to-elevated-stress-and-injury pounding in my neck to my dilated-as-per-lack-of-light pupils and finally to the infuriating grin still curving my lips. I could see the conclusion he was drawing even as he came to it: a heart-rate-normal-for-someone-in-my-present-physical-condition and pupils-that-haven't-contracted coupled with my outward-appearance-of-calm-under-duress all indicated that I was telling the truth.

And when he made this (entirely correct) deduction, the madman began to mirror my smile. "Brilliant," he sighed appreciatively. "You never disappoint, do you, dear?"

"I try not to."

"What is it, then?" he queried, rocking back on his heels. "What is this fact so significant that it mitigates your frankly moronic methods of incapacitating Moran?"

I let a small hiccoughing laugh escape my chest.

"You'll have to beat it out of me."

_And I'll have to hope that John brings help soon_, I added mentally.

"With pleasure," Moriarty said smoothly. "Moran. Drag him over here."

The consulting criminal returned to the pile of machinery and pulled a dusty cloth off of a rickety folding table, its legs long since rusted in a standing position. As the sniper dragged me again by the collar (my shirt was utterly ruined by this point, which considering the quality of the fabric was a real shame), I reassessed the situation, plugging variables into place on an imagined spreadsheet. I was unbound. That was an improvement. My left shoulder was so much minced meat. That could only be termed the inverse of an improvement.

_Perhaps I can still run_, I thought to myself. Then the sniper lifted me onto the table, and my leg knocked into in its side as he did so. _Perhaps I can't_, I amended myself, as the fracture shuddered under broken skin and muscle with a sensation akin to replacing bone with a branding iron.

Lying dazedly on my back, staring at the domed ceiling, I heard Moriarty say to his lapdog, "Get the crowbar." Apparently, he was going to take my recommendation literally.

To my right, there was the sound of a match being struck, and the room brightened. Glancing over, I could make out Moriarty lighting a candle, throwing massive shadows across the wall. Taking my hand in his, he stretched out my arm and poured a long line of scalding wax across the skin of my forearm. I bit my tongue as red blisters raised up under the cooling paraffin.

"What was that you wanted to tell me?" Moriarty asked.

"Please," I murmured. "It's going to take more than _that_ to make me talk."

"Alright. Just remember that _you_ asked for it."

Before long, the red welts were everywhere: my sternum, the hollow of my throat, criss-crossed over my palms.

"Anytime you want to talk is fine, dear," Moriarty told me sweetly. "Though I suggest doing it sooner rather than later. You don't look like you can take much more of this."

"Go to hell," I suggested.

"Been there, done that, got the tee-shirt. Moran - break one of his ribs."

The last thing I saw was a metal bar swinging down toward my chest like an oncoming freight train before solar systems exploded across my vision. The swirling lights reminded me of John, and I might have giggled except that suddenly my chest hurt too damn much to even breathe.

Breathing was boring. It was a sound bite I'd reiterated on numerous occasions in the past. Not being able to breath was anything but. I was drowning, drowning in a room devoid of water. The expression "fish don't drink" skittered across my consciousness in a moment of hysteria-induced lucidity. Instead of oxygen and other trace elements, there was a vacuum in my lungs, being filled rapidly by a sticky wetness I'd had too much cause to experience that night. With a spasm, I coughed, and blood came spilling out of my mouth, running down the sides of my face and neck.

All at once, air came flooding back into my bloodstream, prolonging the Game and handing Death a rain check. My thoughts cleared, like the settling of the ocean after a hurricane, just in time to hear Moriarty say, "I think you broke two."

"You don't... say," I mumbled.

"Wash that mouth out, dear." Moriarty poured a meager helping of water between my lips, just enough to stop me choking on my own bodily fluids, and with difficulty I forced down the brackish liquid.

"Feeling better?" he asked, sitting on the machinery and kicking his ankles like a toddler.

"...Loads," I gasped.

"Right then." Moriarty considered me rather as the Great White considers the stranded diver. "He's got two more ribs on the other side you can break without puncturing a lung. Do those next."

Moran's shadow fell once again over me, and my mind conjured to the fore a meaningless scrap of trivial literature.

_Impia tortorum longos hic turba furores sanguinis innocui, non satiata, aluit..._

_Here an unholy mob of torturers, with an unquenchable thirst for human blood, once fed their long frenzy..._

* * *

**GREGORY LESTRADE**

When they got to the door of the tower, Greg pulled John to the side.

"You should stay here," the detective inspector said quietly.

"What?" John exclaimed. "You can't be serious -"

"I am serious."

The doctor looked at him, dumbfounded, for a minute before asking, "But _why_?"

"John..." Greg sighed. "Look, you're injured, you've already been through a lot..."

"I have to help Sherlock!" the blonde man insisted.

"That's the thing, though," the DI said with a grimace. "Sherlock'll do anything for you, okay? And if you put yourself in danger by going back in there, it makes it that much harder for him to do what he has to in order to get out."

John shook his head, refusing to consider this vein of logic. "You're taking Mycroft," he pointed out.

"Yeah, well, Sherlock's not exactly enamored with his brother, is he?"

"Mycroft can't even hold a gun," the doctor said baldly. "I was a soldier in the army."

"I know that," Greg replied gently. "If I had my way, Mr. Holmes wouldn't be going either, but he's also sort of my boss." Seeing the hurt in his friend's eyes, the detective inspector laid a sympathetic hand on John's shoulder. "Look, we do need someone to keep the back door open for us. I'll have Sally give you a pistol, and you can keep watch down here, alright? Make sure no one gets the jump on us."

"Yeah, alright," John murmured. It was a pity job, and they both knew it.

Greg found Sally and had her dig a pistol and some spare rounds from their supplies for the doctor. Then he nodded toward the front door of the tower and they all pushed inside. John stood morosely on the threshold while Greg began climbing, closely followed by Sally and Philip. Mycroft brought up the rear, hedged in by his attendant gorillas.

The first landing they came upon had a door leading into the left wall. Greg listened at the keyhole; when there was no noise from inside, he turned the knob and eased the door open. A single guard sat snoring in a rolling chair, the floor around him littered with empty beer bottles and bags of chips. A CCTV monitor displayed a grayscale image of the front gate, still hanging open on its hinges.

Philip knelt and pulled the monitor cord from the wall, while Sally curled her lip at the mercenary and set about drawing a pair of handcuffs and a roll of duct tape from the pack. Cuffed and gagged, the would-be guard just turned over in his sleep.

"Maybe you shouldn't have taped his mouth shut," Greg commented. When Sally turned to him quizzically, he just shrugged and said, "He might choke on his own drool."

The ease with which the small team had infiltrated the base left the three officers floating on an elated high. Possibly Mycroft too felt some excitement, but given his blank expression it was somewhat difficult to tell. That being said, Greg was grinning right along with Philip and Sally when they stole back into the hall, thrilled by their success. Then they barged into the next room, startling a trio of mercenaries who, unlike their predecessor, were very much awake and alert.

There was a moment of silence in which the gunmen sized up the intruders, and it occurred rather belatedly to Greg that perhaps a smattering of caution might have been in order.

Then Sally directed her pistol at the center man.

"Drop your weapons," she said, "and we won't have to add 'assault on police officers' to the list of charges."

The mercenary sneered. "I don't take orders from girls, bitch."

"Bitch this," Greg growled, and practically flew across the room, driving the butt of his gun into the other man's nose. As they fell to the ground, the detective inspector was dimly aware of Philip and Sally tackling the other two. Then his opponent's fist made contact with the DI's stomach, demanding the whole of his attention.

Greg hit back, not caring two figs if he knocked a few more of the man's brain cells out of place than was usually called for. The mercenary stopped moving and still the detective inspector kept hitting him until Sally dragged him backwards.

He stalked over to where Mycroft was standing in the open door and leaned against the wooden frame, trying to clear the red from before his eyes. He shouldn't have lost control like that, but something about listening to the hired man insult the sergeant was the straw which broke the proverbial camel. Greg was a mess of nerves and worry for the crazy, sociopathic detective and truth be told the stress of the last nine hours was beginning to take its toll. Mycroft glanced at him with something that might have been mistaken in a lesser being for empathy, but the government official said nothing and Greg likewise made no comment, watching Sally and Philip restrain the three gunmen.

The next two rooms were much the same, except that the detective inspector made it a point to determine the particulars of their opponents before bursting in on them. In all cases, alcohol consumption dulled the reactions of Moriarty's men, though this failed to make them any less dangerous. Indeed, possibly the only thing more dangerous than a mercenary with a semi automatic was a drunk mercenary with a broken beer bottle. One bloke, a tall Scottish man with a blonde mullet, swung one such bottle at Philip, grazing the man's chest with shards of glass. Quick thinking on Sally's part kept the young man from losing an eye, while Greg jumped a second man trying to fire his gun with the safety still on.

Eventually they fought their way to the top of the tower, leaving four rooms of handcuffed hired men in their wake. Greg made the call that the final chamber, an office with mahogany panelling and an empty case for a sniper rifle, was unoccupied (somewhat ominously, he thought), and the group turned their attention at last to the final obstacle.

The tower room was hidden behind an innocuous-looking white door, identical in form to all the others in the compound. Twisting the knob very, very gently, Greg found it was unlocked. He pushed it open, and the oiled hinges did not so much as squeak.

"Oh my God," he breathed.

Sally stiffened next to him, and Philip made a small, strangled noise as they collectively refused to accept what they were seeing.

Moriarty was sitting on a pile of old military equipment, dressed as always in an expensive suit. His henchman was standing on the other side of a table, wearing a rifle across his back and a white shirt flecked with red. Between them, spread-eagled on the table, was Sherlock Holmes, though given the blood stains scattered across his chest and purple-green bruises afflicting the deathly pale expanse of his head and neck it was almost hard to tell.

"Sherlock," Greg whispered.

Impossible though it seemed, that single word spoken almost in prayer was enough to garner Moriarty's attention. The madman turned to them, his gaze sweeping imperiously over the invaders.

"Moran, give it a rest for a moment," he commanded, springing from his seat. "Good evening, detective inspector," he said gallantly. "Don't bother with the introductions; I know all of you already."

"Jim Moriarty," Greg began, refusing to be cowed by the man's charismatically fatal personality. "You are under arrest following charges including but not limited to murder, last week's bombing on Elvanston Street, kidnapping, and torture."

Moriarty smirked. "All that? Really? I must say, that is an impressive résumé."

Greg kept himself in check. "Will you come quietly?" he asked.

"Hmm. Let me think about it." Moriarty laid a finger to his lips with a disdainful smile. "Mmm. No."

Mycroft stepped out of the shadows, frowning as he gestured at the consulting criminal with his umbrella. "It really is to your benefit to comply. You can hardly escape a 'guilty' charge this time, and you don't want to stack more weight against you than you already have."

"Ah, Mycroft Holmes," Moriarty sighed, bringing his fingertips together, "I had hoped you would come. It's nice to see you again. Once more, it seems to be your brother coming between us. A funny coincidence, wouldn't you say?"

"In my experience, I have found that self-seeming coincidences are in fact the result of human unwillingness to see the bigger picture. The universe, on the other hand, is rarely so lazy."

"But you haven't even heard the punchline yet," said Moriarty, eyes alight.

"I never liked jokes," Greg said, raising his pistol to shoulder height. "Surrender now, or we'll see if you can come back from the dead twice."

The consulting criminal rubbed his forehead delicately. "Oh, Gregory. How's the wife? Still sleeping with a bartender?"

The detective inspector snorted. "You're baiting the guy with the gun? You're even crazier than you look."

"No, and that's where you're wrong." The madman massaged his temples like a parent getting a migraine from explaining something obvious to a toddler. "Because I can say what I like about Caroline and how shattered her betrayal left you, and you won't pull that trigger."

Greg tightened his grip on the pistol. "You want to bet?"

"I'm planning to. You see, you aren't the only one with a gun."

The DI's eyes slid over to where Moran was standing over Sherlock. "Yeah, but if your buddy so much as looks like he might think about reaching for his rifle, I'll shoot him first."

Moriarty laughed, and the hairs on the back of the detective inspector's neck stood up in foreboding. Nobody, not even a psychopath, could look that at-ease unless they knew they were untouchable. What had Greg missed?

When Moriarty's laughing fit subsided, he regarded the DI with a child-like grin. "I wasn't talking about _Moran_. Dear me, Mr. Holmes, you _are_ getting old if you can't even recognize blatant treason when it's standing next to you." As one, the group of police officers turned to stare at Mycroft, who was looking extremely disconcerted.

"I beg your pardon?" the government official said. "I'm afraid I don't -"

"Isn't your PA supposed to run background checks on your personal security?" Moriarty asked, batting his eyelashes innocently. "Oh, but that's right. Miss Anthea is on holiday. You had to have someone else do it."

Greg was having what could only be described as a bad feeling about this. What, he wondered, did Mycroft's personal security have to do with it? Then he saw one of the body guards casually withdrawing a silenced revolver from underneath his jacket.

The DI had enough time to shout, "Mycroft!" before the elder Holmes whirled around and stopped short, his nose even with the barrel of the gun.

Mycroft sighed heavily. "So I suppose you paid off Sanders to hire these two, is that it? Wonderful. The paperwork for his dismissal will take hours."

Behind them, Moriarty said, "You must understand, detective inspector, that shooting me would have regrettable consequences for the United Kingdom. It would be regrettable for me, too, of course, but I doubt you'd lose much sleep over that."

"Can't say that I would," Greg said through clenched teeth, turning to glare at their adversary.

"Perhaps we can come to some sort of accord," Moriarty said thoughtfully. "Poor Sherlock's not feeling too hot. He should probably go to the hospital or something. We could always make a trade."

"My life for my brother's?" Mycroft asked. "I'm afraid I can't agree to those terms. England needs me more than it does Sherlock Holmes."

Moriarty chortled. "I knew you were cold, Iceman, but this is unbelievable. You'll actually put your position above your brother's life?"

Mycroft shifted his weight. "If that is the only option."

"Maybe it isn't." Moriarty could have been discussing the merits of different breakfast cereals for all that his voice exhibited emotion. "You _are_ the British government. You have access to classified material, information that even I can't get hold of. What say you order your trained dogs out of the room and then we can negotiate?"

"You're insane," Greg said, his voice trembling with anger as he stared at Moriarty. "You're completely out of your mind." He was shaking, but his hand was steady as he returned his pistol to pointing at the consulting criminal's heart.

"Gregory..." Mycroft said, a trace of warning in his voice, but the detective inspector overturned what passed for good sense.

"No, Mr. Holmes, we are not engaging in negotiations with this terrorist. He's threatened the lives of every man, woman, and child in London, and I will do _whatever_ it takes to ensure that he can never do that again."

Moriarty's face was registering an emotion bordering on disbelief as Greg's hand found the trigger. He was beginning to pull it when a gunshot tore through the air like a thunderclap.

Mycroft Holmes looked up in shock.

* * *

**JOHN WATSON**

John was not taking being left behind very well. True, he was injured somewhat, but even his most painful bruises were superficial, and Moriarty had yet to do him any worse harm than give him more fodder for some really unpleasant nightmares. And true, Sherlock couldn't look after himself if he was worrying about John as well, but for a genius, Sherlock Smart-Ass Holmes could be a bit of an idiot and he _needed _John to watch his back.

Besides, now Lestrade was in danger.

Besides, John was handy with a gun.

Besides, he _owed_ Moriarty. He owed Moriarty Hell.

Of all the excuses cycling through his consciousness, it was this last that held the most weight. Like a boulder in a relentless current, it held firm.

Moriarty had killed Mary. He destroyed their flat. He could have killed Sheryl. He did what he wanted, and no matter what the charges against him, he would always succeed in bullying the jurors into deeming him "not guilty".

Someone had to stand up to him.

Someone like John.

Because in truth, did John not have more of a right to want revenge than anyone? Moriarty had _killed Mary_. He'd humiliated John. And he hurt Sherlock.

Through the haze settling over his eyes, John perceived himself shaking. Fury, not cold but hot as fire and brimstone, rolled off of him in waves as two facts replayed themselves over and over again in his head.

Moriarty killed Mary, and he hurt Sherlock.

_Moriarty killed Mary, and he hurt Sherlock._

With a decision so definitive it became nearly tangible, John stepped away from the tower door. Bugger Lestrade. If the detective inspector didn't want him coming up the stairs, then God help him, he would find his own way to the top.

John surveyed the squat infrastructure studiously. There was the chain link fence wrapped around the wall, and there were the green lights informing him that brushing against the aforementioned fence would render him painfully unconscious. Sherlock had been planning to climb that fence. If Sherlock was planning to do it, then evidently it could be done. John just needed to turn off the power.

The doctor wandered around the side of the building, wondering where exactly one plugged in an electric fence. When he found the lean-to shed and saw the padlock hanging from the door, he figured he must have found it.

Unlike Sherlock Holmes, John lacked the ability to determine a padlock's combination just from analyzing its state of wear and tear. That was not about to stop the doctor, however. The shed was wood, shoddily constructed at Moriarty's impetus for housing the fencing electric. In no mood to be subtle, John's foot found the weaker middle of a board and kicked.

Following a few minute's sweaty grapple with a wooden plank, the doctor successfully knocked a hole in the base of the outer wall. Bending down, he grabbed hold of the neighboring plank with both hands and ripped it from its berth. It wasn't long before there was a spent pile of old boards on the ground and a hole in the wall large enough for John to squeeze through on his hands and knees.

Inside, the lights were off, but the doctor stumbled around blindly until he found the wall plug which fed the electricity. He ripped it from the socket, and, remembering Sherlock's incident, he likewise tore the wire from its charger so that it couldn't be easily replaced. Inside the tower, a monitor would have sensed the electric failure and sounded an alarm had not Anderson pulled the screen cable from the wall.

Back out in the open air, John squinted into the darkness for any sign of the tower window. He was halfway around the building before his eye caught a flicker of soft light. Grabbing on to the chain link, John pulled himself up and began to climb.

Grateful he'd started going back to the gym, the doctor was nevertheless aching in his arms well before he made it to the window. When he did, vengeance told him to climb in and start shooting. Instinct, however, advised patience. Grunting quietly in discomfort, John settled himself on the fence as best he could and listened keenly.

What he heard was not encouraging. Moriarty was too clever to not have a bag full of dirty tricks up his sleeve, and the confidence in his voice was either genuine or a very good bluff. The blonde man eavesdropped with increasing agitation as negotiations between Lestrade's party and the madman went south for the winter. Then the "body guards" pulled guns on Mycroft.

Underneath the sill, John winced. That was an added complication in an already volatile situation.

"You're insane." That was Lestrade. "You're completely out of your mind."

"Gregory..." Mycroft warned him.

John reached up and grabbed the window sill, wrenching his arms with as much muscle as he could muster to pull himself up four feet and onto the ledge. Cat-like, he dropped into the room. In the poor lighting, everyone was too riveted by the tension to notice his sudden entrance.

Greg was saying "- threatened the lives of every man, woman, and child in London, and I will do _whatever_ it takes to ensure that he can never do that again," holding his gun aloft. Behind him, the farther of the two traitors had a weapon of his own trained on Mycroft.

Perhaps Greg was bluffing, hoping that Moriarty would tell his men to stand down. Perhaps he was serious and willing to sacrifice the older Holmes brother if it buried a bullet in the madman's cranium. Either way, the doctor saw only one certain solution to the debacle.

He pulled Lestrade's spare pistol from his pants pocket, took aim at the ex-body guard, and fired.

In unison, everyone flinched. The second traitorous guard began drawing a revolver of his own, so before his gun even began to cool, John aimed and fired a second shot.

For a split second, Mycroft looked positively terrified, as though afraid that he was about to be next. But then his eyes picked out and assessed John's silhouette in the open window and he returned almost as immediately to an expression of cool boredom. That could not be said for the room's other occupants, all of whom were still tending toward unadulterated shock.

John stepped into the ring of candlelight.

"I think the detective inspector was telling you to surrender. I suggest you do that. Now."

Moriarty's eyes bugged in their sockets.

"You - you were locked up," he stammered. "And in _handcuffs_."

"Which," John countered, "are absurdly easy to get out of, given the right tools. It's really an insult to our officers of law enforcement that they have to rely on such inept means of constraint for incapacitating the criminal class."

He aimed Lestrade's gun at the spot between the consulting criminal's eyebrows. Near the table, Moran started casually reaching around behind him, but Donovan stepped forward with a pistol of her own.

"Try it," she spat. "I dare you."

John turned his head back to Moriarty. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't just shoot you now."

There was the crack of bone fracturing and Moriarty fell to the floor. Behind him stood Sherlock, dripping with blood and holding a red-speckled crowbar over where the consulting criminal's skull had been a moment before.

"Because he's _mine_," the detective said. "Mors ubi dira fuit vita salusque patent." Then he too fell to the floor in a dead faint.

"What did _that_ mean?" Anderson asked. "Don't tell me that he's gone and cracked. At least, not any more than he already was."

Mycroft slowly shook his head. "It's Latin," he said. "A quote from the beginning of Poe's _The Pit and the Pendulum_. Translated, it means, 'What was once a place of savage death is now a scene of life'."


	11. The Best Medicine

Here's the last chapter! Hopefully you all like it, and can consider it a good conclusion to what I think was one of my better stories.

This chapter contains smut. Yes. I actually wrote legit, close-to-hardcore smut. And I truly hope that it is okay.

* * *

The Best Medicine

**JOHN WATSON**

It was an hour before the LPD was confident in calling the military base secured. Moriarty, still unconscious and probably concussed, was strapped into a straightjacket and removed in a police helicopter, Moran with him. The hired mercenaries were similarly collected and packed off in bulk for the nearest prison locality. John learned this only later, for he and Sherlock were also taken via helicopter and transferred to St. Bart's with swift immediacy.

At the hospital, John vehemently protested medical assistance, and once the nurses had ascertained that he was mostly just a mess of bruises, they packed some gauze onto the more serious ones and let him alone. It was late, and he was exhausted, but he couldn't sleep without knowing how Sherlock was faring.

Flagging a nurse, he tried not to pester her too much as he inquired into his friend's condition.

"It's really hard to say yet," she told the doctor apologetically. "They're trying to get him stabilized."

John closed his eyes. "How bad is it?"

"I'm afraid it's not good. Are you family?"

"His flatmate."

"Then I'm not sure I can say -"

"Ah, Ms. Drew, I presume?" Mycroft's dulcet tones interrupted her as the politician came around the corner.

"Yes, that's me. And... you are?" the young woman asked, flushing slightly.

"Mycroft Holmes. I have the dubious honor of being Sherlock's older brother."

"Oh. Mr. Holmes, excuse me." She flushed further. "I'm sure you want to know more about your brother. Perhaps we should go somewhere more private?" Her gaze shifted pointedly to John.

Mycroft waved her down. "John is a family friend," he said. "He should hear the news as well."

"Very good, sir." She sighed, spreading hands on her apron. "Sherlock sustained significant blood loss, as well as multiple fractures to the four lower ribs and his right leg. The doctors are setting the breaks and a blood transfusion is already underway. He regained consciousness not long after he arrived, so we've since put him back under. Besides that, your brother has numerous bruises and first degree burns; whatever he was up to, Mr. Holmes, he got in a bit over his head."

"That's not really any of your business," Mycroft said coolly, "but for the record, yes, he did."

"When can we see him?" John asked.

"Not until the doctors have finished. At a guess, I would give it an hour."

The blonde man thanked her and leaned back in his chair, letting the crown of his head rest against the cold wall. Mycroft stood next to him, pulling a small package from his jacket.

"Cigarette?" he asked, offering John the pack.

The doctor looked at him sidelong. "This is a hospital."

"And?"

"And... I don't smoke."

Mycroft shrugged. "Neither do I, but sometimes it is a habit justified by circumstance."

"Kindly take your habit outside."

Oddly enough, the politician did not argue, stepping out onto a balcony down the hall before lighting up. When he returned, smelling faintly of smoke, he chose to stand next to the doctor again, a fact that John found both puzzling and comforting.

"Do you want to sit down?" he asked, gesturing at the chair next to him. Mycroft glanced at it before replying.

"Thank you. No. I can't stand sitting in hospitals. I've done too much of it."

John chose diplomatically to not respond to that last, opting rather to sit silently.

"You saved my life," Mycroft said suddenly. "And Sherlock's. Again."

John raised his eyebrows. "It's what anyone would have done," he said finally.

"No," said Mycroft. "It isn't."

It turned out to be three hours before the hospital staff were willing to admit visitors into the ICU. When finally the doctor came out to brief them, John was on the verge of falling asleep in his chair, but at the first mention of the detective's name he felt wide awake, all traces of weariness gone.

"The anesthesia's worn off, but he's sleeping," the doctor was saying. "I can let you in to see him, but I recommend you let him rest."

Mycroft motioned to John, but the blonde man bit his lip and turned his head.

"Go ahead," he heard himself saying. "I'll give you a minute."

Now that it came down to it, he wasn't sure he could face Sherlock. What if the detective blamed him for what happened? It had been at John's insistence that they had gone after Moriarty in the first place. After Mary's death, he'd been too overwrought to consider a safer course of action, and the detective had suffered for it. What if Sherlock couldn't forgive him? God knew John was having trouble forgiving himself. A single sob, not even half formed, caught in his throat.

The door to the ICU opened and Mycroft came striding back out, looking exasperated.

"Well, he certainly made a mess of himself," the official snorted. "You can sit with him, if you don't mind watching him drool. I'm off."

"You're leaving?" John asked in surprise, standing.

"I have paperwork to attend to. Nothing is served by my staying. He'll recover, and I dare say he'll complain about every minute of it."

Mycroft was most of the way down the hall before John called after him, "You're not fooling me. I know you care about him."

The politician stopped mid-stride. He did not turn around, but after a moment, he said, "Then my showing it would just be redundant."

He left.

John stared after him a moment before hesitantly pushing open the door to Sherlock's room. The detective lay in a hospital bed, a dozen tubes protruding from under the thin sheets. His skin looked fragile under the fluorescents, and next to the black curls lying flaccid against his forehead it seemed likewise too pale. The hollows around his eyes were more sunken than usual, and the burns on his arms stood out in sharp relief. All told, it was an image John had seen too many times, the death mask of one who already had one foot in the ground.

With a shuddering breath, the doctor sank into the visitor's chair left next to the bed. He found the detective's hand under the sheet and held it.

"God, Sherlock, I'm so sorry," he whispered.

"Whatever for?" came the quiet reply.

John started, looking up to find blue-grey eyes focused intently on him.

"You're supposed to be asleep," the blonde man chided.

"What, so you can make misguided pleas of apology by my bedside like I'm a corpse or something?" Sherlock tossed his curls out of his face. "Mmm. No."

"How long have you been awake?"

"Since the anesthetic wore off."

"And Mycroft didn't know?"

The detective smirked. "Unlike you, I can feign sleep."

"Very clever, I'm sure." John too was smiling faintly, though his expression returned to one of seriousness a minute later. "Really, Sherlock, I am sorry."

The detective arched an eyebrow. "For what?"

"I feel like it's my fault that you got hurt."

"What on earth makes you think that?"

John didn't want to explain, feared doing so lest Sherlock see the logic in it and agree that it was the doctor's fault, but the guilt he felt was suffocating.

"If I hadn't been so distraught after Mary died..." he began, "if I had been thinking clearer... I led us both into danger, demanding we go after Moriarty on our own. You could've been killed."

"But I wasn't."

"Four broken ribs and a leg? That's not exactly superficial, Sherlock."

"You do realize," said the detective, giving John's hand a gentle squeeze, "that I could just as easily be giving you this same speech."

The blonde man's brow creased. "How do you mean?"

"I gave you a gun with no bullets in it," the detective reminded him. "You got poisoned, Moriarty's probably scarred you psychologically for life, and the whole reason you lost your wife and home in the first place was because darling Jim was using you to get to me. In a fair universe, I'd get a hell of a lot worse for the trouble I've caused you."

The doctor felt his eyes widening at this retelling.

"So you don't blame me?" he asked, still not quite able to meet Sherlock's gaze.

The detective gave a crooked grin. "Do you remember what I told you in the tower?"

John exhaled slowly, and Sherlock felt the man's pulse jump under his fingers.

"You said you loved me," John said softly.

"And correct me if I'm wrong," smiled the convalescent, "but I was under the impression that when you love someone, you don't care much about getting hurt." He paused for a moment before saying in a smaller, uncertain voice that John was unused to hearing, "You said that you loved me, too."

This time, John was able to meet his eyes. "I did," he confirmed.

"Did you mean it?"

John opened his mouth to respond when something about the way the detective was looking at him gave him pause. He looked nervous. Shy, even. Perhaps, then, the query was not as flippant as Sherlock made it sound.

"The sociopath says he loves me, but you're the one insecure about its being requited?" the doctor asked with a frown.

Sherlock turned his head, embarrassed. "Well, you _have_ been very adamantly insisting for three and a half years that you're not gay, so you'll excuse me if your requital does not seem especially... probable to me."

John cupped the detective's chin, turning his face back toward him.

"I'm not gay," he said simply. "I've never fancied a bloke before in my life. And yet, for whatever reason, when I look at you, I feel like we could do a hell of a sight better than 'fancy'."

With deliberate slowness, Sherlock lifted his hand from under the covers, bringing John's to his mouth. Softly, chastely, he planted a kiss on each of the doctor's knuckles, watching the blonde man's reaction carefully. John, for his part, sat stock still, afraid that if he so much as blinked he might break whatever spell had come over his reserved and unemotional friend.

"You really don't mind," the detective said with mild surprise.

"Sherlock," John said, and he found that his voice had turned absolutely haggard. "If you don't kiss me like that every day for the rest of our lives, I may die."

"Come here," Sherlock murmured.

John slid his chair closer to the detective's headboard and leaned over the side of the bed. For a moment, their faces remained apart, separated by an inch that was also an abyss. Then the detective tilted his chin up, brushing his lips against John's.

The heat in the room seemed to increase. Unsure how much his nominally asexual flatmate was willing to take, John didn't press an advance until Sherlock, with an eye roll that said it ought to have been obvious, ran his hand through the doctor's hair and pulled their lips together. Sherlock tasted like nicotine (John would have to remember to ask about that), sea salt, and a muskiness the blonde man found reminiscent of Scotch. The detective happily surrendered control of his mouth, and John was taking no prisoners. Now that he'd started kissing Sherlock, he didn't know if he could ever stop - until there was an irritated "ahem" from behind him.

Sitting bolt upright, he hastily wiped his mouth while a pair of vaguely amused doctors fiddled with the instruments. One gave the detective another morphine injection, while the other changed the IV bag. John felt himself turning beet red, whereas Sherlock just looked smug.

When they left, assuring John much to his chagrin that "his boyfriend would be fine," the blonde man turned back to the detective.

"Boyfriend." Sherlock turned the word over in his mouth like he wasn't quite sure what to make of it. "What a banal word."

John tilted his head. "We don't have to refer to ourselves that way."

"True. There's always 'partner',"

"That's better, I suppose."

There was a mischievous light in the detective's eyes when he asked, "What about 'lover'?"

The doctor wrinkled his nose. "That just makes it sound like one of us is being unfaithful."

"Fair enough."

John smiled, absently untangling a few of Sherlock's curls. "We don't have to have a label," he pointed out. "You're Sherlock Holmes and I'm John Watson. If that's enough for you, it's enough for me."

The detective sighed sleepily. "That's always been enough for me."

* * *

**JOHN WATSON**  
**The Following Month**

Sherlock spent three days in the Intensive Care Unit. Then he spent two weeks in a different ward of the hospital, and another two shuttling between Baker Street and St. Bart's for physical therapy. John came to see him every day. Sometimes he brought Sheryl, who was getting better at sleeping through the night, and sometimes he left her with Mrs. Hudson. By the end of a month's time, the hospital staff were willing to call the detective sufficiently recovered to move back into 221B permanently.

On the night of his homecoming, John took Sherlock out to dinner. Angelo not only gave them a candle, he gave them close to the entire menu on the house in what he said was a get-well gift for Sherlock but John suspected might actually have been a tacit apology for the arsenic episode. Regardless, the food was both delicious and plentiful. 221B's refrigerator was going to be stuffed with leftovers for a week, provided Sherlock didn't decide to experiment on any of it.

When they returned to their flat, it was in better spirits than either of them had been in for weeks. Laughing, they near-to tripped up up the stairs. John fumbled with the lock and pushed his way into the apartment; he hadn't even made it all the way through the door before Sherlock's hands were on his shoulders, shoving him up against the wallpaper and knocking boxes of pasta to the floor. He kissed John hard, pressing against the doctor's chest with his own. When he pulled back, looking down and straight into John's eyes, the shorter man was breathing considerably harder.

"Sherlock," he protested weakly. "You taste like the garlic from dinner."

"Mmm," the detective agreed. "And you taste like chicken roast with paprika and green beans, but you don't hear me complaining."

"The... leftovers are going to spoil," John told him, edging past Sherlock and retrieving the fallen boxed food.

"I'll brush my teeth, then," Sherlock called after him, "since you seem to object to halitosis. Not that I blame you. Nasty, really."

"Yes, you do that," John smiled, stepping into the kitchen. "And then what?"

"Then I'm going to bend you over the side of the sofa."

John paused, halfway through bending to open the refrigerator.

"Are you?" he asked, ignoring the fact that his voice seemed to have jumped up an octave.

"Is that a problem?"

Somehow, the detective was right behind him. Silently, John cursed whatever power Sherlock had that allowed him to sneak up on people so effortlessly. Deliberately, he transferred the remainder of their dinner to the fridge before turning around. Sherlock closed the gap between them, putting his hands on either side of John against the icebox. His face was expressionless, but the doctor got the impression that the detective was evaluating something. In his own head, John had a myriad questions.

_Weren't they taking this a little fast?_

_Did Sherlock actually want the kind of intimacy he was... intimating?_

_Did_ John _actually want that?_

He opened his mouth to ask the first of these. What came out, a bit breathlessly, was, "Nope, no problem."

That seemed to answer the last question, anyway, he thought. Sherlock stared at him for another minute before apparently deciding that the shorter man was being sincere, at which point he smiled slowly and turned around.

"Right, give me a minute," he said casually, giving John a backhanded wave and leaving the doctor alone in the kitchen to contemplate the biochemicals suddenly awash in his system. Doubtless, Sherlock could tell him what they all were, a thought which shouldn't have been a turn-on but still managed to increase the heat in his cheeks.

_Dopamine_, he listed to himself. _Epinephrine_...

From down the hallway, there came the sound of running water. In that moment, it dawned on John just exactly how hopelessly in love he was, had probably been for a long time. The water stopped, and the doctor felt a thrill go through him, knowing what came next.

There was the padding of soft footfalls in the hallway. Sherlock was barefoot, and he'd taken off his dinner jacket (_A good call, that_, some part of John's mind registered. It was an expensive jacket. No reason to wrinkle it.), which left the detective in black slacks and a cotton button-down that was a pale sky blue. He walked passed the kitchen and into the living room. At the couch, he stopped, turned, and leaned against the wall with a look that was clearly intended as a challenge.

The doctor felt something in his stomach flip over and slosh his insides; Sherlock was trying to be difficult, making John walk to him instead of just dragging him to the settee. John licked his lips, which were suddenly feeling very dry, and made his way purposefully across the green mile of a living room to where his flatmate was standing. He could hear the blood pounding in his ears.

It wasn't that he was frightened of what he was about to do - as a doctor, he certainly wasn't ignorant on the biology of it, and if precedence were anything to go by, he was absolutely going to enjoy the experience. It was that he was frightened by how easily he had agreed to it, as if shagging Sherlock Holmes were the most natural thing in the world.

And then Sherlock was holding him gently, chests apart, almost as if they were dancing.

"Have you done this before?" he murmured.

"Only with women," John said quietly back.

"Well, that still puts you ahead of me, I think."

John blinked. "What, you've never -?"

The detective snorted. "Nope."

"Not even with Janine? I thought you and her were -"

"Janine wanted to," Sherlock said shortly. "I told her no. Gave her some sappy spiel about waiting for marriage and all. She ate it up. Can't imagine why."

"Sentiment."

"Sentiment? Hmm. Well, like I said - there's only so far you can go."

"Uh-huh." Somehow, the understanding that Sherlock had no idea what he was doing eased John's nerves. "And with me?"

"Suffice it to say..." The detective's hands found John's hips. "I'm willing to go a lot farther."

"Thank God for that," the doctor muttered before reaching up to kiss Sherlock again. They stood like that for a long time, John's hands around the detective's neck, Sherlock's arms around the doctor's waist. The blonde man was well-occupied with the darker one's bottom lip when the atmosphere noticably altered. Sherlock's knee brushed against the side of John's leg, and through the fabric of their trousers the point of contact burned with suppressed heat. The air in the apartment electrified.

John looked slowly up at Sherlock, aware of the quiet consent written in his own blown pupils. The detective turned them both and stepped in one motion, so that the back of John's legs were pressed to the arm of the couch. John's hands fell to grab the side of the settee, and Sherlock lifted his leg, bracing his knee against the doctor's side and the arm cushion. Practically straddling John's lap, the detective's hands slid to John's thighs even as the smaller man pressed kisses against the detective's throat, feeling the flutter of Sherlock's breath and relishing the faint tremble there.

"John," the detective said shakily. "Don't know... what... I'm doing."

"Shh," John admonished. "I believe you were planning to bend me back over the couch."

"Mmm. Shirt. Off."

Too aroused for proper sentences, Sherlock pulled at John's jumper, sliding the knit wool over his head. Left in his undershirt, John grabbed a fistful of the detective's clothing and pulled him closer, hastily undoing buttons.

"Why," he nearly growled, "do you always wear these impossible things?"

Sherlock undid the last button and let the cotton shirt fall to the floor, reaching for the doctor's white tee. "For the same reason you wear jumpers - makes me look irresistible."

Tumbling backwards onto the couch, John landed with a jolt underneath the detective.

"Arrogant git," he murmured, biting gently on the spot just below Sherlock's ear.

Theoretically, the detective had a witty reply, but John's touch turned it to so much incomprehensible drivel. Then Sherlock shifted his weight, and the growing friction in John's pants brushed against the detective's. Both men felt their eyes widen at the unexpected contact.

"Oh fu -" John breathed. Sherlock looked startled by the other man's reaction, at which the doctor pulled the detective's face down to his own, cutting off Sherlock's "It's okay if -" with a look. "Sherlock Holmes," said John, "get me out of these trousers."

"Now?"

The doctor looked hard into the sea of blue-grey above him. "Oh, God, yes," he whispered.

Sherlock worked the belt off the waist of his partner, trying not to smirk too much at the noises John made when his fingers brushed skin, before dropping the leather strap to the floor with a thoughtful glance. John grabbed the raven haired man by his pockets and worked the suit pants off him. How well John was actually able to accomplish this was debatable, given his compromised position on the settee, but between him and Sherlock, the black trousers ended up likewise discarded on the carpet. The doctor's hand happened to brush against the bulge in Sherlock's boxers, at which the detective gave an audible gasp and shuddered, his pupils swallowing his irises. It only then occurred to John that no one had ever touched Sherlock in that manner before.

With a sense of great deliberation, he reached up and palmed the detective's erection, watching Sherlock's face flush and his eyelashes brush against his cheeks. With the shadow of a smirk himself, John ran his thumb against the hardness through the fabric. Sherlock's face turned an inventive shade of purple as he spewed nonsensical things that might have been blessings or might have been cursings. It appeared that the cutting detective was actually at a loss for words.

"John..." he managed finally, a tremor in his voice that would have measured an 8.0 on the Richter scale. "If you... keep doing... _that_... I won't last... much longer."

"First times tend to be like that," John smiled, wriggling himself the rest of the way out of his pants.

"I wouldn't... know."

"No, I suppose not."

He dragged Sherlock down next to him, adjusting so that they lay side by side on the narrow settee.

"Let me show you how much I love you," John said softly, running his thumb down the detective's jaw.

"I thought it was _me_ bending _you_ over the couch," Sherlock replied.

"You did," John reminded him. "Very admirably, too."

For a moment, the detective looked so genuinely undone that John pulled him into half an embrace, nuzzling his shoulder. Sherlock acted so confidant all the time that it was easy to forget that about some things he was just clueless. A moment later, Sherlock's voice in his ear, gruffer than before, said, "People say it's like fireworks. Is it like fireworks?"

John snorted. "Sex is much better than fireworks."

There was a muffled sound that might have been the detective saying "good" into John's hair. Then, a tentative "Show me?"

The doctor felt himself smile tenderly against Sherlock's bare shoulder. John pressed the detective back against the couch, all the while giving careful caressess and quiet reassurances.

With an uncertain quirk of the lips, John asked, "Protection?"

Sherlock waved his hand absently. "I'm clean, and so are you. Don't bother."

"Right."

There was a pause, like the quiet before the storm, where John took a deep breath. In a smooth motion, he pulled off first his own undergarments and then pulled Sherlock's down to the detective's knees. Sherlock's anticipatory shiver drowned out what nervousness John still felt; resting one palm against the sharp ridges of the detective's hipbone, he rubbed the forefinger of his opposite hand down the detective's length. Sherlock shuddered, his back arching into the touch with a small cry.

"Sherlock," John began. "Sherlock..."

The detective's eyes fluttered open. "Please, John," he said hoarsely. "_Please_. I don't - I can't -"

John pressed a finger to Sherlock's opening, shimmying past the tense muscles. The detective bit back an exclamation, his fingers scrabbling for purchase on the cushions. The doctor waited, letting his partner acclimate to the sensation, but Sherlock shook his head violently.

"More-more-more-more-more-_please_-John," the detective gasped in a single breath. Carefully, John added a second finger and then a third. Sherlock looked half out of his mind, driven past all point of coherency by the unfamiliar sensations accosting his person. Watching him writhe on the sofa, John too was rapidly losing control. He lost it altogether when the detective glared at him and said, "You are an _unholy_ tease. _Take me_ already."

John did exactly that.

Then again, he usually did what Sherlock told him.

When they reached climax, Sherlock first, but John not far behind, the detective's back arched so far that John was momentarily worried about his ribs cracking again. He didn't shout, but the doctor found he was happier that way. It was nothing short of a personal triumph to know that he had brought the eloquent consulting detective to a point of absolute silence.

Sticky with release but in no mind to get up to shower, John kissed Sherlock gently on the lips. The detective's lust-blown eyes sparkled as he said, "You were right. Much better than fireworks."

"I was what?"

"You heard me."

"I did. But I like hearing it."

"Alright. You were completely," Sherlock began, punctuating every word with a kiss, "absolutely, and unquestionably correct."

"Sherlock Holmes," John sighed, leaning against the chest of his flatmate, "if we don't do this every day for the rest of our lives, I may die."

He could feel the baritone's deep laughter rumbling in the man's diaphragm. "Every day?" Sherlock asked. "When did you get to be a nymphomaniac?"

"Mmm. About twenty minutes ago, I think."

"Twenty-one minutes, thirty-seven seconds," the detective said softly. "Alright. Every day, then, if you like. But I think," Sherlock added, "that next time I get to be on top."

"'Course," John replied.

Across the room, the detective's phone buzzed. John raised his head, but Sherlock pulled him back.

"Leave it," the detective said. "It's just Lestrade, hoping I can check out some cases tomorrow."

As a matter of fact, it was Lestrade. Unread on the mantle, Sherlock's phone read:

_8:57 p.m._  
_SH, priority level urgent. Call ASAP. It's about Moriarty. - GL_

Not five minutes later, the mobile vibrated again, to be ignored by the flat's occupants until the next morning over breakfast. The second text was from an unknown number.

_9:01 p.m._  
_Until next time, Sherlock Holmes. - JM_

**THE END**


End file.
